Flawless Ruin

We showerand head out to the bar nearby, when I catch sight of a guy on the corner, lighting a cigarette. A familiar guy, built like a linebacker, with closely cropped blonde hair.

My jaw tightens. Nero’s head henchman. Why is he here? Is he following me?

I watch him a beat too long, because Logan follows my line of vision and clears his throat. “What? You know that guy?”

I shake my head, grab his sleeve, and point him toward the small, dirty bar on the corner, where I’ve found myself every evening this week. The bartender, Pat, knows us, so he keeps the brews coming.

Logan does what he’s best at, which is scanning the bar for hot women. I do what I’ve been best at—at least, this week—downing beers, one after the other, until I can no longer stand.

“That honey and her friend haven’t been able to take their eyes off us since we got in here,” he says.

I don’t even look. I’ve been trying to fuck away my thoughts of Juliet since the gala. It hasn’t worked.

The only thing that has even remotely helped has been what’s behind the bar. I need more of it. Quicker. I study the bottles, thinking a shot of whiskey is in order.

But that’s when I see him, in the mirror: Nero’s guy, sitting in a corner booth.

So he is following me. What the fuck?

“I’m going in,” Logan says, standing.

I stand too, focused on the goon, teeth gritted.

Logan looks back at me. “You coming?”

I shake my head and point to the restrooms.

Then I make a beeline over to Nero’s man. He’s relaxed there, watching me with a smirk. I get the feeling he’s the one who broke into Juliet’s place a couple weeks ago, scared her to death, which is why my hands curl into fists as I slide into the booth across from him. “What do you want?”

The man sips his scotch and smiles. “Just to remind you of what you owe us.”

“I know,” I mutter. “You think I don’t know?”

“You think you bought some time,” the guy says, his voice calm and controlled. He must get that from Nero. “You didn’t. Time is running out.”

I bite back the urge to use him as a punching bag. “Don’t fucking—”

Before I can get the rest of my threat out, he lifts his substantial body out of the booth and heads for the exit.

Message delivered. I stare after him, my muscles so tight with rage that they’re trembling. I need to calm the hell down.

Shots.

I need a shot. Now.

I go to the bar and order one. Down it. Order another.

“Brought them over,” Logan says, moments later.

I look up. So he has. A blonde and her brunette friend sit on either side of us. I’ve seen them in the bar before. They’re barely dressed and well taken care of, probably married, with expertly applied make-up. When they talk, their voices are low and self-assured. I buy them shots, because I can tell they want to get drunk as fast as I do.

The blonde leans in, whispering things into my ear until her whispers become slurred. She does all the talking, but I don’t hear a single word of it. I don’t say much, if anything, until she puts her hand on my crotch.

I look over and realize Logan’s gone. He must’ve taken the brunette home. The bartender announces last call, and I realize just how late it is. After two.

No matter. I’m just drunk enough that I think I might be able to make it through the night.

So I invite the blonde outside. Elizabeth? Susan? Who the fuck knows?