Cassandra
I twist the paper napkin into a stem, then separate the other end into petals and pop it into the empty glass in front of me. A white paper rose. My third tonight and apparently my signature calling card, especially when I’m bored.
Every night for the past week and a half, I’ve spent a couple of hours here in Mitch’s Bar. From eight to ten, I’ve taken this same stool and ordered a glass of rum and coke over ice, with a slice of lime, which I’ve proceeded to make last until I have to leave.
This place is, quite literally, my last chance saloon.
An FBI criminal profiler who can’t even spot that her own partner is a serial killer doesn’t get fired. That would be too clean, too easy. She gets relegated to paperwork and basement offices, barely more than a footnote until retirement, when nobody throws her a leaving party because nobody knows who the fuck she is.
But if I can complete this one job, my slate will be wiped clean. That’s the deal offered to me by Deputy Assistant Director Andrew Jackson. And he has the kind of clout to make it happen, too.
So here I am for the tenth night in a row, wearing yet another simple black dress, not too short or too long, a little low cut but not showy. Classic, casual, and just a hint of alluring.
According to my boss, keeping it low key is the perfect snare for Apollo Volos.
“Another, Rose?”
I glance up, suddenly pulled out of my daydreaming by Callie, Mitch’s twenty-one year old daughter, as she plucks the napkin out of the glass, clearing away the other two and dropping them in the garbage. You’d think her thick eyeliner, black lipstick and oversized hoodie would mark her as poetic and sentimental, but she’s nothing of the sort. Just her style, I guess.
I kind of like it. I remember when the goth look was all the rage. It’s emo now, but still, I get it.
She already knows I won’t have another. It’s always just one, which I make last until I leave.
I shake my head, about to tell her it’s time for me to go, when I’m startled by a slurred voice a little too close beside me. “Next one’s on me, sweetheart. Whatever she’s having.”
Turning, I find a man in his twenties, tall and broad. He’s obviously drunk, but that’s not stopping him from checking me out, his eyes sliding uncomfortably down from my face as a stupid grin pulls at his lips.
“Like what I see here. So, what’ll it be?”
I shake my head, turning away so I don’t feel his gaze on my cleavage. “Thanks but no thanks. I’m just leaving.”
“Oh, come on, darling. You look good. A bit old but hell, who doesn’t like a bit of MILF action?” He turns his head and shouts to a table in the corner. “MILF action!”
The guys around the table cheer in return, raising their glasses.
Perfect. Just perfect. I’m going to blow my cover by arresting a bunch of drunk twenty-somethings.
“Hey, she said no, asshole. I’m not your sweetheart and neither is she.” Callie is suddenly right there, glaring at him across the bar. “So, order or go back to your friends.”
He laughs, looking her up and down. “Jealous, huh? Fuck, yeah, I’ll do you both. That’s hot.”
“Right, that’s it. Get the fuck out of my bar!” She raises her voice. “All of you. Out!”
I’m watching cautiously, waiting for the asshole to start something. I’m not going to stand by if he decides to blow up, undercover or not. Callie’s tough, but she’s a wisp of a thing and I doubt she’d be able to handle a guy like that. Neither would I in a straight fight, but if I can get the drop on him I have training that will kick in. I’ll just have to hope it’s enough.
The tension builds as he stares at Callie, then turns to look at me one more time. I stare right back, until finally he sniffs and laughs.
“Stuck up lesbian bitches,” he spits, then heads back to his table.
Where, to my surprise, he doesn’t get a warm welcome. I overhear one of them tell him he’s such a dick and another say homophobia isn’t cool. In the end, they leave him standing as they head out the door and one of them even throws a “sorry about Pete” and a nod our way.
The guy, Pete I’m guessing, puffs out his chest as he glares at us. “You women are all the same. Never giving nice guys a chance to prove themselves. I swear I only came on to you because you looked all alone up there. You’re both ugly as shit. And I would have treated you both like princesses too, but no, you only want cavemen who treat you like a bitch. I hope you both—”
“If you’re not leaving, I’m calling the police,” Callie says in a low voice that doesn’t leave any room for argument.
Pete glances around the room, but nobody’s on his side. So he spits on the floor, then heads for the exit, stepping outside.
“Asshole,” Callie mutters, then meets my eyes. “Sure you won’t have another?”