The entire six-hour ride here, I thought about the letter in my bag. I’m done now. I don’t want to think about it anymore. That’s something I’ll revisit later, after I get some food in my belly and a little break before hunkering down in my car for the night. I get out and slam the door.
I freeze, startled when a large, lumbering black SUV pulls into the space beside me with a screech of tires, like a raging bull stopped short. It looks bulletproof and powerful and dwarfs the cars beside it. I flatten myself against my car on instinct so I can observe and watch a second, then a third black car—another SUV, followed by some sleek, expensive-looking car with tinted windows—park beside me, so close I feel the heat of the engine on my legs.
They’re either celebrities or drug dealers. Maybe both.
Why here? Why now? I want to be anonymous, and this showy flash of cars and obvious money makes me want to put my car in reverse and leave.
Before I can get my wits about me and head inside, the car doors open, and men start pouring out of it like it’s a bachelor party playdate. I don’t want them to notice me staring, so I try to pretend I dropped something on the ground and peer at them from my almost-hidden position.
A chill skates down my spine. These are no ordinary men.
I’d guess they range in age from late teens to mid-fifties, but every one of them is well-dressed, well-groomed, and they walk with an air of ownership that’s hard to miss. A mere glimpse at them tells me they’re strong, powerful, wealthy men with a purpose. Their voices carry through the night air.
“Served too long,” one guy says.
“Need to get laid,” another offers, cuffing a guy beside him I can’t quite see.
“Bet they don’t serve Frangelico or Limoncello in the big house,” says another.
“Don’t tell Ma we came here first, or she’ll beat your ass,” another warns with a grin. “Party line, we just picked Rome up and he’ll be home for dinner tomorrow.” I can’t really see faces in the dark, only hear their voices and… feel their presence.
I straighten up and slow down my step so I don’t look like I’m following them.
I hold my purse closer to my hip and hang back, but one of the much younger guys, probably not much older than early to mid-twenties, holds the door for me. The overhead light illuminates his face as I draw closer. His face is perfectly symmetrical, a born movie star or model, dark hair and mesmerizing eyes that soften when he sees me. He’s got a bad boy look about him, though. A modern-day James Dean.
“After you, gorgeous,” he says with a grin that would melt the panties off a nun. I feel my cheeks heat, but give him a thankful nod. He’s all smooth talk and grace, and in comparison, I feel clumsy and foolish and like I’m really out of place.
And yet… it feels nice to be called that.
I smile my thanks, and when I enter, walk as far away from the rowdy group of men as I can. There’s something about them that oozes raw, unadulterated alpha male, something about them that’s all testosterone and steel. Something about them that intimidates me a little. You don’t see guys like this in the tiny town I grew up in in upstate New York, and if you do, they definitely don’t pay attention to girls like me.
The room grows quiet when they enter, for such a brief moment of time it’s almost as if I imagined it. The bartender stands up straighter, the waitresses shoot one another quick, furtive glances. It’s so quick, before I draw in another breath everyone’s gone back to the way things were.
Interesting.
I find a vacant booth in the corner of the bar and take a seat. This is a good vantage point. From here, I can hear anything I want, eavesdrop and listen and observe, and hopefully no one but the waitress will know I’m here.
“Sorry, honey.” I look up to see a middle-aged woman with graying hair standing by my table. “This one’s taken.”
I look around the booth. “Taken?”
“Yeah, hon. Bachelorette party coming in a few, all tables from here to the back are reserved.”
I look where she points to a small reserved sign hanging on the side of the booth that I didn’t notice before.
“Oh. Sorry about that. Do you have a booth I could sit in?”
She shakes her head sadly. “Sorry, babe. You’ll have to sit at the bar.”
“The bar?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry, you can order food there.”
That’s not what I’m worried about. I feel like sitting at the bar might as well put an available sign around my neck.
This was a mistake. This was a stupid, stupid mistake. I came here wanting to be anonymous, and to break up the monotony of staying in my car, not to be noticed by anyone.