Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
The interior was unusually dim, a line of pink LEDs outlining the contours of the room and the length of the bar. When people walked, the floor tiles beneath their heels and Italian loafers lit up lurid yellow and lime green. It was tacky as hell, and I didn’t exactly have caviar tastes. I’d go anywhere that had decent beer and a minimum of assholes.
But based on the tap selection and the affected bartenders, this place struck out on both counts. I ordered from Bam Bam, a bartender who moonlighted as a bit player on a reality TV show and got myself the best they had to offer. With a sadistic twist of vengeful satisfaction, I got Garrett the worst. He hardly looked at the pint glass I put in his hand, his gaze fixed intently on his troubled actor.
He took a drink, then shifted his gaze to mine, his mouth twisting. “What is this shit?”
“Bam Bam recommended it,” I said, trying not to grin.
“Who?”
I jerked my thumb in the direction of the bar. Garrett scowled, but before he could say anything, we heard his actor raise his voice.
Garrett’s eyes snapped back, and he absent mindedly went back to sipping the piss-flavored beer, not even seeming to notice the taste anymore. I watched, mildly entertained, as he intercepted his charge’s numerous forays into trouble territory. At one point, we had to relocate into the back room where there weren’t any barstools, just low-slung tables surrounded by squat velvet armchairs. Iron chandeliers were wrapped in pulsating string LED lights that reflected off the mirrored walls, giving the place a nightmarish quality.
“I feel like I’m in hell,” I called to Garrett over the music.
“Maybe, but at least hell doesn’t have barstools.”
I didn’t have to ask him to explain. Everyone knew that his actor had picked up a barstool with every intention of smashing it over a rival’s head last month. The jackass hadn’t succeeded, only because he hadn’t realized how fucking heavy a barstool was. Rumor had it that he’d fired his personal trainer the next day and replaced him with a bodybuilder.
“He’s getting big,” I said to annoy Garrett. “He’ll be able to lift the whole bar soon.”
“Shut up,” Garrett snapped, and then because he couldn’t help himself, he went to the bar to assess its structural integrity, that shitty beer still in his hand.
Laughing to myself, I headed back to the first room. Bam Bam may have been an idiot, but at least this tap had something halfway decent. I had developed tunnel vision long ago. It was effective both in my work and in situations like this, when I didn’t want to make eye contact with a single fucking person who might recognize me and waste the rest of my night, trying to airdrop me their headshots.
That’s why I was practically at the bar before I realized that the blonde blur in my periphery wasn’t some faceless stranger who would always remain nameless. It was Lily.
I was almost used to the fucked-up combo of unpleasant shock and lust that punched into my solar plexus every time I came across her unexpectedly. But it still pissed me off. Especially when the shock was edged out by a darker version of the lust when I saw what she was wearing. Gone were the gauzy skirts and structured blazers, the subtle allusions to the shapely form beneath. Now she was wearing a black dress that skimmed down her backside, caressing without hugging her curves, and fluttered to an abbreviated end just below her ass. Her long, tan legs were bare, and she was wearing incongruously sensible black heels that didn’t do a damn thing to slow the rush of blood from my head to my groin.
“What do you recommend?” she was asking Bam Bam.
He flashed a smile that was somehow even brighter than the LEDs. “The Pineapple Fantasy IPA. I’m actually the brewologist who created it.”
If I hadn’t been so distracted by the sudden appearance of Lily, I might have snorted. Bam Bam was a brewologist like I was a fucking wizard. A team had created it, and then, desperate for even the slightest bit of buzz, let him attach his bullshit name to it. Now he was hawking it. It was the cycle of bullshit that made this town go round.
“That’s really cool,” Lily was saying sincerely, even as reluctance was puckering her forehead. “I guess I have to try it.”
“The fuck you do,” I said, stepping forward. Garrett could afford to spend twelve dollars on beer that tasted like it had been sieved from the waste basin of a pollution plant. Lily couldn’t.
“If you like IPAs, the Lunar Eclipse is the only decent one,” I said, scanning the rest of the titles.
Bam Bam tried to scowl at me, but halfway through, he recognized me. It happened sometimes, no matter how hard I tried to keep a low profile. His mouth froze in an expression of perplexed dislike. I could almost see the thoughts cycling between his few brain cells. This guy is an asshole. This asshole is Con Walker.