Page 9 of Shattered Throne
I knew the time because I'd just checked the clock, counting down the minutes until I could go home. Noise followed them in. From the sound of their laughter, they were already pretty drunk.
There were five of them. They stumbled through the door in a pack, with their expensive coats and expensive shoes. I knew the type. I'd served enough of them to recognize the signs: the designer watches, the cashmere scarves, the designer shoes.
What were they doing here? Rosie's wasn't exactly a destination for rich folks. We were a dive bar in a forgettable part of Brooklyn.
They took over the big booth in the back. One of them knocked over the salt shaker and didn't bother to pick it up. Another was already waving for service, snapping his fingers like I was a dog he expected to come running.
I grabbed my notepad and headed over.
Four of them were variations on a theme: mid-to-late twenties, loud, flushed with alcohol, competing to see who could be the most obnoxious. One had slicked-back hair the color of wet sand. He was doing most of the talking, gesturingexpansively with hands that had never done a day's manual labor.
The second had long blonde hair he wore in a mullet. He had a permanent grin on his face. The other two had identical brown hair and dark eyes. Probably twins.
But the fifth one was different.
He sat slightly apart from the others, shoulders angled away from the conversation like he was trying to create distance without actually leaving. Dark hair, disheveled in a way that looked effortless rather than careless. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. His coat was open, revealing an expensive-looking charcoal sweater that fit him well enough but not so well that he seemed to be trying.
And his eyes.
Green, I thought, though it was hard to tell in the bar's dim lighting. Framed by lashes that were almost unfairly long for a man. They were fixed on the middle distance, unfocused, like he was looking at something none of us could see.
He was handsome. Devastatingly so, the kind of handsome that usually came with a matching ego and a trail of broken hearts. But there was something tired about him, too. He looked like a man with too much on his mind and no one to share it with.
Not that I cared. I'd learned the hard way that handsome men with sad eyes were just as capable of disappointing me as the ugly ones. More capable, sometimes, because they'd had more practice.
"What can I get you?" I asked, pen poised over my notepad.
The slicked-back one—the loud one—barely glanced at me before rattling off an order. Whiskey sours all around. Top shelf. The others nodded along, still mid-conversation about some club they'd just left, some girl one of them had struck out with, some deal someone's father was closing.
"Just water for me."
The quiet one. His voice was lower than I expected, slightly rough, like he'd been talking too much or not enough. He still wasn't looking at me. Still wasn't looking at anything, really.
"You sure?" The slicked-back one laughed. "Come on, man, don't be boring. We're celebrating."
"Celebrating what?"
"Being alive. Being young." He spread his arms wide. "Pick one."
The quiet one didn't respond. Just shook his head slightly and repeated, "Water. Thanks."
I wrote it down and headed back to the bar.
Hector raised an eyebrow as I approached. "Trouble?"
"Not yet."
I made their drinks quickly, arranging them on a tray with the quiet one's water set slightly apart. When I returned to the booth, they'd gotten louder. I set down the whiskey sours one by one.
The slicked-back one—Chuck, I'd heard one of the others call him—watched me with a smile that made my skin prickle. Not in a good way. Never in a good way.
"Here you go," I said, placing the last drink. "Let me know if you need anything else."
I was turning to leave when his hand closed around my wrist.
"Hey, sweetheart." Chuck's smile widened. "What time do you get off?"
I pulled my wrist free and kept my voice even. This happened all the time. At least once a week, some guy decided that being served a drink entitled him to something more. At least this one hadn't smacked my butt on the way by. That had happened, too, more times than I could count.
