Risky Business

A few minutes later, I walk into Verdux, Carson’s bar of choice. This is where he goes after a rough day. And I’m right, he’s clearly visible perched on a barstool as soon as I walk in.

He doesn’t look toward the door when I enter, his gaze focused on the glass of bourbon in front of him, and I take the opportunity to sit at a booth where he can’t see me to do a little recon.

The bar isn’t quite what I expected Carson’s favorite haunt to be. It’s not a sports bar, nor is it a dark-wooded, old money place. It’s more of a businessman's place, with a few suited professionals taking up space here and there, working last-minute deals over drinks rather than a boardroom table.

The old-fashioned teak bar is long, with a considerable selection on the wall behind it, and the lighting is dim and warm, no sign of neon or disco flashes. The bartender is an older man in a black polo, and the lone waitress I see dashing about is wearing a matching polo with slim black pants. They’re dressed to disappear and be discreet, well paid to not see or hear anything.

Verdux is a good choice for a person looking to be invisible. I can give Carson that much, at least.

Turning my attention to him, I look him up and down. He looks lost, almost vulnerable compared to earlier. He’s removed his tie, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscular forearms that go along with those sexy hands. His eyes aren’t hazy as though he’s been drinking too much, but rather, it seems he’s thinking deeply about something.

About me? Today?

There’s a woman at the end of the bar giving Carson openly appreciative looks, and a sense of ugliness blooms in my belly when I consider that he might send her a drink, slip her hair behind her ear, and walk out of the bar with her on his arm.

He has every right to do so, but it’s not the image he needs right now.

Is that the only reason you don’t like that idea?

I don’t get a chance to evaluate the question further when the woman makes a move of her own.

She gets up, sliding down the bar to sit at Carson’s side. She knows what she’s doing, her hair shiny and gorgeous, her eyes smoky and sexy, and her outfit remarkably similar to mine, except her skirt is a few inches shorter. She’s looking for someone, for the night or forever, I’m not sure which.

Carson Steen ain’t it, honey, I want to tell her. But part of me worries he might be.

I watch as she smiles at Carson and his gaze flicks up to her. He says something I can’t hear, but he raises his empty glass toward the bartender who nods. The woman waves as well, ordering a drink of her own.

I need to stop this. Not examining my reasons, I get up and cross the room, positioning myself at Carson’s other side.

“Carson?” I let my voice drop, deep and deadly in warning.

He glances over his shoulder, the surprise in his eyes quickly replaced by humor at whatever he thinks he sees when he looks at me.

“Hey, babe,” he drawls, as if that’s a perfectly normal way to greet me.

The woman on his other side leans forward, looking around Carson to consider her apparent rival. She’s gorgeous, a vixen who would haunt any man’s dreams, but when she looks at me, she sees competition.

As if we’re in one.

“You know her?” she purrs to Carson.

Carson’s eyes don’t leave mine for a moment as he dryly answers, “Yeah, crazy ex. She’s stalking me, probably has a whiteboard with photos of me plastered all over it.”

I narrow my eyes, playing along but upping the ante because two can play at this game. “Yep, except I sliced out all the eyes so he doesn’t see me following him and sneaking into his apartment at night. And lots of red yarn to connect the conspiracy.” I reach up to cup his face, letting the pad of my thumb skate over the tender skin beneath his eyes affectionately. “I’ll save you from those lizard people, baby. Before they replace you.”

In my peripheral vision, I see the woman shift back in shock, but my attention stays focused on Carson to see what he’s going to do next. Privately, his eyes sparkle in good humor, and he turns to the other woman, shrugging. “You’d better go.”

She looks uncertain, quietly asking, “Are you okay? Blink twice if you want help.” She stares at him unblinking, carefully looking for a sign of distress. She must not get one because she stands up, muttering, “People are crazy as fuck.”

When Carson turns back to me, his lips are twitching as though he’s fighting a smile. “Couldn’t stay away from me?”