Page 11 of Steady Stroke
He didn’t dare dream or hope. He clapped loudly forRitchie P., and then stared at the stage door so hard he didn’t hear Beatrice announce the next act.
“Linc?” Melody snapped her fingers near his nose.
He blinked her into focus. “What?”
“You looked like you were going to have a spontaneous orgasm. You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am okay.”
“I’ve never seen one of those things that guy Ritchie was playing.”
“I’ve heard of them, but I never saw someone play one. It sounded so real.”
She didn’t seem sure how to take his comment. “For a second you looked like you wanted to chase him down and steal his harpsichord.”
“QChord.”
“Whatever. That thing you’re lusting over.” Her perfectly penciled eyebrows shot up. “Thatiswhat you’re lusting over, right? Not the guy?”
He laughed. “No, definitely not the guy.”
Speaking of guys, Pale Eyes had emerged from the behind the bar with a gray basin in his hands. He eased his way around the sea of patrons, carefully bussing tables of empty appetizer plates and glasses. Lincoln guzzled the rest of his soda, then nudged the glass to the edge of his table.
Eventually Pale Eyes worked his way to the back. He snagged the glass without making eye contact, and Lincoln had no earthly explanation for why that disappointed him. Never the most subtle person in the room, he decided to hell with it and got up for another Coke. A waitress would have brought him one, but he needed to get closer to the bar.
One person jostled him on their way past, and Lincoln held back the unreasonable urge to shove them away from him.
Pale Eyes wasn’t there while he waited for Van’s attention. “Sure you don’t want something stronger?” Van asked as he poured the soda.
“Too early,” Lincoln replied. The last fucking thing he needed was to get hammered and risk a repeat of last Friday. “Who’s the guy bussing tables tonight?”
“Beatrice’s nephew Emmett. He moved here last summer.”
Nephew. Interesting. “Not local?”
“Nah. Used to live across the bridge, someplace around Baltimore, I think. Why?” Van plunked down his soda, a wide grin betraying his thoughts. “Didn’t get enough from that blond number you took home last week?”
Lincoln’s gut twisted, and he forced back a grimace. “That guy was a grade-A mistake. I’m just curious about Emmett, that’s all. He seems . . . skittish.”
“He is.” Van listened to another drink order, then set about mixing and gossiping. “Kid has some severe anxiety or something, and Beatrice thinks that working a job like this, instead of staying holed up at home, will help him socialize.”
“She’s not afraid it will make the anxiety worse?”
“Guess not.” Van raised a stainless-steel shaker over his head and gave it several hard knocks. The orange liquid inside went into two ice-filled rocks glasses. “Been here three weeks and I can’t say I’ve seen much improvement.”
“Does he have any friends?”
“No idea. Beatrice’s son Adrian is about his age. They probably hang out.”
Van’s information was both helpful and incredibly irritating in what he didn’t know about Emmett.
The object of Lincoln’s curiosity chose that perfect moment to appear behind the bar with bottles of liquor in his hands. He deposited them into the female bartender’s service well one at a time, after uncapping and adding a pour spout to each.
On his way past a second time, Van barked out, “Emmett.”
Emmett took two steps to the side and kind of shrank under Van’s intimidating stare. “What do you need?” His gaze raked over the counter in front of him, as if he was trying to see what garnish he’d forgotten to restock.
“Say hello to someone for me,” Van said.
