There was something intense about him, something really physical and active that made her think he didn’t sit much, normally. He didn’t chat much. He was looking toward the dartboard, leaning forward, rolling the whiskey glass between his palms.
“Do you like New York?” she asked.
He gave her a sharp, startled look, as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Sure.”
The silence settled again, but this time he kept his eyes on her. Those strange, dark-rimmed eyes. He watched her over the top of his glass as he took a sip of warmed whiskey, and his steady, quiet focus created all this pressure in her lungs. She wanted to blurt out the whole story and get it over with. To cut herself open and spread every messy detail on the ground in front of him, then watch his face to see if he felt anything but annoyance.
Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline in her system, tango-dancing with this latest infusion of alcohol. Her purse had been taken hours ago, but her hands still felt shaky, her armpits damp.
Ben watched her, waiting for something.
The pressure built.
Phantom pressure. Ghost biology. There was no reason for her to open her mouth.
No reason, except that he didn’t open his, and somebody had to.
“What brings you to New York, May?” she asked.
He cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, how kind of you to ask,” she told herself. “I moved here to be with my boyfriend, Dan.”
Ben turned toward her and settled one shoulder against the couch cushion. Making himself comfortable. After he’d gotten settled, he lifted his free hand off his lap and made a rolling circular motion. Go on, the gesture said. I want to hear this.
“So why aren’t you at home with Dan,” she continued, “instead of bothering a strange man at a Packers bar?”
He didn’t smile exactly, but his mouth did something that was less of a scowl than it had been. Something soft that made her notice he had lips, and they were capable of looking ways other than foreboding.
“Well, Ben, the thing is, Dan’s not just some ordinary schmo. He used to play for the Packers.” She plucked at the number on her jersey.
The brackets at the corners of his mouth deepened.
“Thor,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Thor.”
He lifted his drink to his lips, then took it away without drinking. “I think I know how this story goes. I heard about it from Connor. That was you?”
“That was me.”
“Stabbed Thor Einarsson in the hand with a shrimp fork. I’d have paid good money to see that.”
“You can see it now for free. It’s on YouTube.” Thankfully, it was a grainy, shaky video taken from afar, and May was little more than a tall blond blob in a black dress. Unrecognizable unless you knew who you were looking at.
“Nah. I don’t watch that kind of stuff.”
“Viral forkings?”
“People’s private lives turned into public entertainment.”
“Ah. Classy of you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He considered her for a moment. The corners of his mouth hitched up a notch. He leaned in and clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers, then. I can’t fucking stand Einarsson.”
May smiled and looked away.
She shouldn’t be smiling.