Page 10 of Bad Intentions

I lose her again and sip on my second drink that tastes even better. I should slow down. I’m driving. In this town, the police don’t stalk bars, but I don’t want to take a chance.

Except the drink is delicious, and I can’t take my eyes off the new girl. She looks like a city girl, which makes me cheer on the inside that I’m not the only one who slid down the wrong path and ended up in this area.

The door opens behind my back. When the man walks past me, his expensive cologne makes me sniff on reflex and turn my head. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp features. He’s wearing a gray knee-length coat—a clear giveaway that he’s not a local. A neat V-neck cashmere sweater underneath it. Black jeans.

Two months in Burnville, and my eyes are already trained to spot the out-of-towners or visitors. Foreigners are rare. Handsome men especially.

So I do what the other people sitting at the bar do—I stare. Mind you, it’s not a crime in small towns, it’s a trouble-detector.

The door opens again, and I hear the familiar “Hey, you.”

I turn to see Andy, a guy I’ve chatted to several times. He’s from the city, moved here for a job. Fresh blood, as they say.

Andy notices all the occupied chairs next to me. “Wanna come hang at one of the tables?” he offers.

“In a moment.”

Disappointment crosses his face, but then he waves to someone at one of the tables and walks off. Good.

Though he’s handsome, tonight I’m in the mood to find out more about the new girl.

7

JOSIE

The bartender greets the young man in a coat who walks to the opposite side of the bar counter from me. She must know him.

“Hey, Rika. How are you?” he asks.

So, her name is Rika. Is he a boyfriend? A friend? Birds of a feather, for sure.

He takes off his coat, folds it over the back of the bar stool, and takes a seat at the counter. He orders a whiskey on the rocks. I know I’m staring, and he catches me, gives a tiny one-second smile, then drops his eyes to his phone.

With nothing better to do, I pick up my phone too and reread the messages from my friends who have been texting me since I left. Then I go to my personal social media accounts, though I’m checking them less frequently—I don’t need a reminder that people are still living it up and chasing their dreams while I live with my grandma in my childhood bedroom and work at a diner. If I were home in Pittsburgh, I could go to a rave or a concert, stop by my friends’ for their rock band practice, drop by Mario’s studio, and chat with his buddies about the new exhibits and jam sessions.

But I’m in Burnville.

I loudly suck on the ice left in my drink when the bartender taps her brightly painted fingernails on the counter in front of me.

“Another one?” She motions to my empty glass.

“Sure,” I blurt out.

It’s the first time in a month that I’ve had two drinks in less than an hour. Here, that is. Back in Pittsburgh, that was what got me in trouble. I should stop, but I suddenly want to be around people.

The third drink in my hand is empty pretty soon, though when I check the time, it’s been two hours since I came here. The bar is clearing out. It’s Monday. There are only a few people left at the bar counter, and the main area lights go dim.

The bartender says something to the handsome man, who cocks his head, studying her, then slides her a fifty and, without waiting for change, gets off his chair and puts on his coat. Even the way he puts it on—with a Louis Vuitton scarf around his neck, not wrapped, like the modern trend, but overlapped on his chest—screams “style.”

“Thanks, Rika,” he says as he walks to the door.

“See you, Connor,” she replies.

As he passes me on the way out, his eyes lock with mine, and I hold his gaze, wondering what his deal is. He’s definitely not on the market for dating. Not in this town. I should ask the bartender, Rika.

I’m tipsy. Very tipsy. And bored. I should go home, but I really don’t want to. Somehow, being here completely distracts me from what has been happening in the last few days. The hit-and-run seems distant, like it didn’t happen. Even the country music on the jukebox doesn’t bother me much.

Rika wipes her hands on a towel, fixes her hair, and takes a knowing look around.