Page 37 of Miss Understanding

“No. I’m still full from dinner. It was really good, by the way.” Compliments. I could be better at giving them. Judging by the way her face lit up, she appreciated it. Driving the point home that I should be a lot freer with giving them.

“Thanks. You want wine?”

“No, thanks, I have whiskey.”

She poured herself a glass of red and joined me in the living room where I took a seat in the reclining chair.

She was quiet for a moment, then biting her lip as if she wanted to ask something.

“I can practically hear your brain humming. What is it?”

She sighed and was out with it. “Why did you come home, Liam? If it would be this painful?”

It was a question I often asked myself. And now that the hard stuff was out in the open, it was easier to give her more of the details. Hell, it felt good to have someone in whom to confide. “I didn’t want to, but ultimately I came for my mother. After my dad left, my mom worked two jobs and did everything for us kids.”

“It’s why you don’t come home. Because of the bad memories?”

“Yeah. It’s not easy. Especially since my mom lives in the same house from our childhood. I tried to get her to move, but she loves it.”

“Must mean there were some good memories there, too, then.”

Probably. But I’d never focused on those.

Needing to change the subject, I asked something I was curious about. “What club are you bartending for?”

She gulped more of her wine. “Um, it’s in LA.”

There was something she wasn’t telling me. “And? What’s the name?”

Again with another gulp. “I’d rather not tell you.”

Now she had to. “In that case, I’m calling in my bet chip.”

She sucked in a breath. “You’re calling in what?”

“The bet from bowling. You owe me something, and I choose the truth. Spill it.”

She drained her glass and got up to pour more. “I don’t believe it when they say there are four glasses to each bottle. More like two and a half.”

Her stall technique was only making me curious. It also made me forget about the melancholy part of the evening. “Tell me.”

“No. Pick another bet chip to cash in.”

“I argue for a living. Do you really think I’m letting this drop? What is the name of the club? Not like I intend to go there.”

“No, I don’t imagine you would.” She took a deep breath and drank more of her wine. “But if I tell you, you have to promise not to judge.”

“All right.”

“Fine. It’s the Cheetah Club.”

Why did the name sound familiar? Then it hit me. I’d previously done business with the owner. “The dance club?” My voice had gone up an octave. If I remembered correctly, the place had a number of scantily clad women dancing in cages above the floor, not to mention a private club on the upper floors which catered to gambling and private stripping. I could only hope she wasn’t involved in that side of the club.

“Yeah. But I don’t dance. I only bartend.”

I was silent.

“You said you wouldn’t judge.” Her hands fidgeted with her hair.