Page 40 of Broken Mercy
But if I can get what I want, and she also wins in the end, then we can be reluctant partners.
She looks down at her hands as her fingers wrap into fists.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Fantastic.” I get up for a second time. “There’s a bar called the Elk Room. Show up there tomorrow at five-thirty and find out the bartender’s name. If you can do that, we have a deal.”
“Wait, what the hell?”
“Elk Room. Five-thirty. Bartender’s name.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, baby, it’s called a test.”
She calls after me, but I walk away smiling to myself, buzzing at the thought of the fun we’re going to have together.
CHAPTER 12
TALIN
The lights are dim as I slip through the front entrance. The place is oak, metal, glass, and not much else. Orange glows from soft bulbs in the ceiling and bodies are packed all over, most in shirts and ties clearly straight from work. The leather-wrapped booths are full and there’s only a single stool empty wedged between a drunk woman and a massive man in a heavy coat.
I primly sit myself and lean on my elbows.
This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here, playing Brenden’s game. I don’t know how this is going to prove anything, but he didn’t leave me any other options. When I followed him to the bedroom after dinner, I found the house was already empty.
My typical husband, disappearing the moment life gets difficult.
Focus, Tallie.
I know the Elk Room. This is my sort of place. The second he told me the time, I knew it’d be packed with bankers, hedge fund managers, and public relations specialists all screaming ateach other over a mediocre live jazz band playing in the corner. Getting a drink’s going to be hard enough. How the heck am I supposed to get a name?
The bartender tonight’s a young man. He looks like he’s been doing this gig a while. Tattoos cover his arms and his dark hair’s curly and messy. His beard’s nicely trimmed and he’s got a good smile which never seems to slip from his face even as he’s running around making drinks and pulling beers. There’s a barback, but she’s moving around the building frantically.
The young man bartender spots me and comes over. He has the look of someone about to disappear into the Alaskan wilderness to write an epic poem or something. He points at me, eyebrows raised in the universal gesture ofwhat the hell do you want.
“Hey, sorry, what’s your name?”
He cocks his chin curiously.
“Your name?” I yell clumsily.
“Sorry, what do you need?”
The woman next to me howls with laughter. I have no clue if it’s at me or not. My cheeks turn red and I feel like a total idiot as I mumble something about a vodka and soda. He hears that fine and my glass appears thirty seconds later. I’m about to try again, but he’s already gone, moved on to the next thirsty group of project managers looking to get wasted after a long afternoon of typing emails.
What the heck is wrong with me? If I had kept pressing, he probably would’ve said it. Or maybe I needed to be less direct, a little more circumspect. I probably came off like a weird creep,yelling about his name up front. I hunch over my vodka soda and take a sip, wondering why I’m doing this in the first place.
I don’t have to consent to Brenden’s stupid test.
I’m the one with the blackmail, right?
In theory, I have all the power.
But I think we both know that’s only partially true. Yes, I could ruin him with a single email, but he’s right when he pointed out how counterproductive it would be. If I got my first husband killed, what would that say about my future prospects?
He’s much more useful to me alive.
