“Yeah? What about it?”
“Please don’t share that information with anyone.”
I smiled. “Jack, I pay your bills. You used to have a membership at a known sex club. I might not have known the exact details of what you were into, but I knew it had to be something.”
Surprise registered on his face, then he looked at me pointedly. “How did you know it was a sex club?”
“At the risk of repeating myself, I hear things.”
This was a lie of the self-preservation variety. I actually heard very little. The truth was, my curiosity had gotten the better of me and, feeling like the worst kind of friend, I had performed some clandestine research via Google and sheer determination.
He cocked his head and looked at me questioningly. “You never said anything.”
“Well, just because I…um…come across…certain information, it still doesn’t make it any of my business. I would never repeat something like that.”
“You’re awesome, you know that?” he asked, looking as if he wanted to ruffle my hair.
“Yep.”
He grinned and then wrapped it up. “Okay, so my house Sunday. I’ll text you the time if I don’t talk to you before then.”
“Okay,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to head over to Foster’s for a drink and see if anyone’s still around. Do you want to come with me?”
“Can’t,” he replied, also standing. “I promised my dad I would help him with some stuff at the house tonight.”
He threw some files into his briefcase and grabbed his jacket from the credenza, ignoring the mess he made when he knocked a good chunk of the disheveled papers to the floor. I sighed. Come Monday morning, it was going to be my responsibility to clean that up. He walked with me to the door, gestured me out ahead of him, then turned off the lights and locked the door.
After a brief stop at my cubicle to pick up my purse and jacket, we headed out to the parking lot and stopped by my car. “Have fun tonight,” he said, reaching over to give me a one-armed hug.
“Will do. See ya, Jack.”
“See ya, Ange.”
Then we got into our cars and drove off in opposite directions.
Chapter 5
Foster’s was a medium-sized, family-owned bar that was located about two blocks from the office. Because of its proximity, it was the preferred after-work watering hole for GLC employees. It was a little later than I normally stopped by, but the parking lot was packed so I imagined I wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone I knew to have a drink with.
To say that Foster’s was a dive would be an insult to dives everywhere. It was not a swanky place. But it was friendly and welcoming because the owners made it a point to know the names of anyone who had been there more than once. It always made me feel as if I was drinking with friends, even if I didn’t technically know anyone else there.
Walking in, I stood at the door and took a quick look around. There was a long bar directly across from the entryway, with several televisions above it, all tuned to a basketball game. There were pool tables and dart boards off to the right and scattered tables and chairs took up the rest of the floor space. The jukebox could always be counted on to play a mix of classic rock, which I loved, and country, which I did not.
Surprised at not immediately spotting anyone from work, I walked towards the bar and considered it my lucky day when I saw my favorite bar stool – the very last one on the left end of the bar – was currently being vacated. I rushed over before someone else could stake their claim and quickly nabbed the seat.
“Angie Baby!” a deep voice boomed out. “How ya doin’, girl?”
I looked up to see Joe, the most senior member of the Foster family, behind the bar, wearing a big smile and heading my way.
“I’m doing great, Joe,” I informed him, while settling into my seat. “And I think I’ve asked you not to call me that.”
“You were named after that song, right?”
“Joe, you know darn well I was not named after that song.”
“Well, you shoulda been,” he said. “It was a great song.”
“It was not a great song. It was a song about a crazy woman and I. Am. Not. Crazy,” I said, pulling a face that said otherwise.
He laughed and slid a cocktail napkin in front of me. “True. You’re too cute to be crazy.”
“Well, thank you, sir. You’re very kind. But your taste in music is atrocious.”
He laughed again. “Salty Dog, minus the salt?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“You got it,” he said and walked away to make the drink.
While I was waiting, my peripheral vision registered a man taking his place at the very end of the bar to my left – a place that was large enough to stand at but too small to have its own stool.
I glanced up briefly at the movement and caught the eye of an average-looking guy dressed in faded jeans and a grey University of Michigan sweatshirt. I gave him a brief lift of the chin and a “how ya doin’” which he returned in kind. Then I turned back around and he looked up to watch the game.
Joe returned with my drink, took the order for a beer from my new neighbor and hurried off. I savored the first refreshing sip of vodka and grapefruit juice, while thinking about Frank, of all people.
Frank was one of those guys you could never picture as being any age other than what he was now. He was in his late fifties, and he always wore a suit and tie, the crease in his trousers razor sharp. The father of four and grandfather of three, he was active in his church and the community and seemed to have a close-knit family.
And Frank was disapproving. Always. You never really knew what it was he didn’t approve of, but you knew he had judged you, based on some mysterious criteria, and found your moral fiber to be lacking. A slight purse of the lips, a slight flaring of the nostril. A slight disapproval. Unless you were Marla. Then the disapproval rolled off of him in waves.
He wasn’t always as difficult to deal with as he was now. When I first started working at GLC, he had been reasonably pleasant, if not friendly. Over the past couple of years, though, he had become decidedly less likeable. I didn’t know if it was his age, Jack’s father leaving the company, or some unknown problem in his personal life, but something was definitely off with him.
Still, I just couldn’t see him as the embezzling type. Unlikeable does not necessarily translate into criminal. I took another sip of my drink and realized that, as much as he annoyed me, I did not want to find out that Frank was a thief.
I was jerked out of my contemplation of other possibly felonious employees when all the hair on my arms suddenly stood up. I slowly turned my head to the right, leaned slightly forward and scanned the bar. I looked casually down the line of unfamiliar faces then directed my attention to the pool table area. A jolt of recognition had me whipping my head back around and my gaze returned to a man sitting at the opposite end of the bar.
Steve.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. My heart hammered against my chest and the rest of my body shook right along with it. I quickly resumed my face-forward position and leaned back in my seat, hoping to block whatever view he might have of me.
The very last thing I had heard about Steve was that he had lost the job he had while we were together and had moved to Vegas to live with his brother. I just couldn’t fathom why he would be here, in this particular bar. He had always looked down on it when we were together and would never come with me when I asked.
I almost hadn’t recognized him at all, his appearance being so altered from the last time I had seen him. I was having a hard time reconciling my memories of him to the man I saw now. When I knew him, he had bordered on the fastidious. His blonde hair had been very precisely cut and carefully styled to look as if it hadn’t been styled at all. His roundish face always looked freshly shaven and he wouldn’t be caught dead with stubble. He had, in fact, refused outright when I half-kiddingly asked him to grow some for me.
The m
an sitting at the end of the bar was unkempt and about a week beyond dirty. His matted blonde hair almost touched his shoulders and his face looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. He had lost a significant amount of weight, and his formerly round cheeks were sunken.
As the thought crossed my mind that he looked like some kind of an addict, everything I didn’t understand about the end of our relationship suddenly clicked and solidified in my mind.
“Oh my God,” I whispered again. His behavior from five years ago began to make sense. I had an overwhelming urge to bolt, but stifled it, not wanting to risk him seeing me.
“Are you all right?” The concerned voice came from my left and I swiveled my seat in that direction, looking up into the kind brown eyes of the guy standing next to me.
“Please,” I pleaded, without much forethought. “I know you don’t know me, but I’ve kind of got a situation here and I really need you to act like we’re together.”
He didn’t hesitate and, setting his beer down on the bar, he gave me a sweet smile and put his hand on my upper arm, rubbing lightly.
“Ex-boyfriend?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, very.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf. Did it end badly?”
“Understatement.”
“Which guy?” He broke the eye contact and looked out over the bar.
“The guy on the last stool at the other end.”
He shifted his gaze in that direction while he continued to rub my arm. His nose wrinkled in distaste. “He doesn’t look like he would be your type.”
“Trust me - he didn’t look like that when we were together.”
“I should hope not,” he muttered under his breath.
The arm rubbing stopped, he frowned and unexpectedly tilted his head forward, stopping just short of touching his forehead to mine. “Okay, don’t panic, but he’s getting up; it looks like he’s leaving.”
My shaking increased and I let out a whispered “Oh, shit.”
“I’m going to hug you,” he warned. “Bury your face until he’s gone.”
I moved into his hug without question, having to part my legs a little so he could get closer. He stood between my legs and, as directed, I buried my face somewhere between his neck and his chest.
His arm around my waist tightened and his other hand settled on my upper back, rubbing in small circles.
“He’s heading this way,” he whispered in my ear. “Don’t look up.”
“Is he looking at us?” I asked shakily.
“No. I don’t think he sees you. Just another minute; he’s heading for the door.” He paused for a second then gave me a light squeeze. “And….he’s gone.”
I released a relieved breath and unwound my arms from his neck. He immediately stepped back from my inner thigh area, but remained turned in my direction.
“Thank you so much.” I picked up my drink with trembling hands and took a big gulp. “That was close.”
“You’re afraid of him.” This was said as a statement of fact, not a question.
“Yeah, a little,” I confirmed.
“Did he hurt you?”
I paused before answering, giving consideration to how much information I was willing to divulge to a complete stranger. “Yes, but it was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Five years. But, really, I’m over it now,” I lied.
“You don’t look over it. You’re still shaking.”
“It was a shock seeing him here. That’s all. Look, it’s a long story and not really suitable for a first meeting.” Trying to dissuade him from this line of questioning, I added, “It was really nice of you to do that for me. I don’t think most people would have reacted that quickly – and perfectly, by the way.” I gave him a smile that I hoped would sidetrack him.
“Yeah, well, I have two younger sisters who I wouldn’t want to see in that position - so I just pretended you were one of them.” He flashed a smile of his own, revealing a matching set of dimples, and it hit me that, although everything about his pleasant appearance said average, he was the kind of guy whose mannerisms and way of talking – not to mention the dimples - transformed him from kind of attractive to downright sexy.
I took a closer look. Around my age, maybe a year or two older, and probably just under six feet tall. He looked very solid in the upper-body area and I now wished I had been paying more attention when I had my face plastered against his chest. His brown eyes were expressive and that great smile was almost as good as Jack’s.
“I’m Nate, by the way,” he said, extending his hand to me.
I took it and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Nate.”
He waited expectantly, then raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
“No,” I said simply.
He grinned at me. “Why not?”
“It’s just a silly personal rule I have. I don’t give out my name to men I haven’t been officially introduced to,” I replied honestly.
“But you do know me,” he argued, maintaining the dimpled grin. “We’ve practically had an affair right here at the bar.” His eyes were amused as he picked up his beer and took a drink.
I laughed at that and felt the remainders of my trembling leave me.
“Sorry. Not gonna happen,” I said, smiling to soften the sound of that.
He made a point of looking around the bar while saying, “What do you think the chances are that I’ll find someone in this bar who knows both of us?”
“Probably slim to none,” I began. “Unless you come here often?”
He blinked at me and then laughed. “Did you just try to use a cheesy pickup line on me?”
“Oh, God,” I responded, somewhat mortified. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry. I won’t try to take you up on it.” His face took on a teasing look as he added, “Unless you ask me really nicely.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him. While I was finishing off the remainder of my drink, he said mysteriously, “You know, I’ve got a bit of an ace in the hole.”
“An ace in the hole? What do you mean, exactly?”
“I already overheard the bartender saying something about you being named after a song. So, all I have to do is come up with the right one.”
“Do you really think that’s going to be easy? There are probably hundreds of songs with women’s names in the title.” I very consciously pushed all remaining thoughts of Steve out of my head and began to enjoy myself.
“Ah, so the name is actually in the title,” he said smugly.
“Okay, yes,” I confirmed. “But that still doesn’t really narrow it down.”
“If I guess, will you tell me?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
Joe picked that moment to return. “Ready for another, sweetheart?” Joe knew not to use my name if a strange man was talking to me. We had had that discussion.
“Yeah, one more I think.” I turned to Nate and raised my eyebrows in question.
“Yeah, me too.” Looking at Joe, he said, “Excuse me, but if I introduce myself to you, then could you introduce me to her?” He nodded his head in my direction.
Joe winked at Nate and said, “Sorry, no can do. She has a rule.” He turned away to get our refills.
“Nice try, cheater!” I laughed.
“It was worth a shot.” He shrugged and guessed, “Layla?”
“No.”
“Lola? Molly? Maggie May?”
“No, no and, thank God, no.”
Joe slid our drinks in front of us and we both paused to partake. “You could keep that up all night and probably still never guess,” I taunted.
“You’re probably right.” He looked at his watch, then added, “And I don’t have all night. My son has tee-ball practice early in the morning so I don’t think hanging around here all night trying to guess your name would be a good idea. Even if I wish I could.”
He had a son. I don’t know why thi
s surprised me. His being in the bar alone, doing nothing but watching a basketball game, had made him seem somehow unencumbered.
“You have a son,” I stated.
“Actually, I have two sons,” he confessed, surprising me further. “Michael is six and Matthew is four.”
“So you’re married.” I looked down at the naked ring finger of his left hand and found myself a little disappointed at that possibility.
“Nope, never have been.”
“Yet you have two children.”
“Yep.”
“Dare I ask if they have the same mother?” I pushed nosily.
Looking amused, he said, “You may ask and yes, they do.”
“Ah,” I said, tilting my head to the side and nodding sagely. “Commitment issues?”
He laughed. “No, not at all. But it’s a long story - and not suitable for a first meeting.”
“Oh, touché.” I raised my glass to clink it against his bottle and we both took another drink.
“How are you getting home?” he asked.
“I have my car.”
“I’m a little worried that your ex might be hanging around.”
Shit. I hadn’t considered that.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said.
“Maybe so, but I’d feel better if you’d let me follow you home to make sure you got there okay.”
“Oh, you’re good!” I said, pretending to be impressed. “But if I won’t tell you my name, what makes you think I’d let you follow me to my house?”
“Point taken,” he conceded. “Then how about if I just walk you to your car and then you can text me when you get home to let me know you’re all right?”
“Conveniently giving you my phone number?”
He laughed. “You’re a suspicious little thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m a woman. All women with any sense at all have reason to be. For all I know, you could be a psycho.” I paused to take another drink. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A psycho.”
“Well, I guess that depends on who you ask,” he answered, flashing the dimples.
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