Page 49 of The Lies We Play

Chapter Eight

Halston

Now . . .

By the ninth block, I have no destination.

By the twelfth, I’m pissed about it.

At myself, mostly. The fact that I left the building before I did something stupid, which should count as restraint but feels a lot like retreat.

New York doesn't care. A cyclist slams his palm against the side of a delivery truck and curses the driver in a way that makes me feel like I should be doing the same to my family. A dog barks from an apartment above me. I keep walking.

Past a closed bakery. Past a tailor. Past a florist with buckets of dying roses out front. Past a private club where the doorman recognizes me and straightens before I look away.

Smart man.

Tonight, recognition is the last thing I want.

Tonight, anyone is the last thing I want to be.

Then the roar hits.

Men shouting from inside a bar up ahead. A goal horn blasts through the open doors, loud enough to make a couple on the sidewalk stop mid-argument. The sign over the entrance is green neon, scratched brass, and a cartoon bear on skates grinning.

It’s ridiculous and loud.

It has nothing to do with me.

So naturally, I stop.

I stand there in a tailored suit and consider walking on. That would be the smart move. Go home. Shower. Pretend that a normal life is possible.

I step inside.

The bar is hot, packed, and filled with noise. Beer. Fried food. Bodies shoved too close together. Hockey on every television. Men in jerseys screaming at referees who obviously can’t hear them and would not be afraid of them if they could.

A woman at the bar slaps the counter and yells, “That was interference, you blind fossil.”

I take the far stool, back to the wall, eyes on the door. Old habits. Useful ones. The bartender is broad. There’s gray in his beard, and he has a towel over one shoulder. He clocks the suit, the face, and decides not to get cute.

“What can I get you?”

“Water.”

His brow lifts. “You need to buy something if you’re staying.”

“Sparkling water.”

“Dangerous night for you, huh?”

Despite myself, I almost smile. “You have no idea.”

He sets the glass down and points his chin at the screen above me. “Hell of a game. You ever been to the arena?”

Me at an arena? I almost snort, but instead, I look up because it’s easier than thinking—or answering.

A player in a Night Hawks jersey cuts across the ice in slow motion.