Page 27 of Hate You More

She shouldn’t be living in a shit end of town with strangers.

Fuck it, I am not going to feel sorry for her.

“How long before the traffic thins out?” Up ahead, all I can see are taillights.

The driver of the Merc, kept on staff, murmurs an apology, then something about an accident on the Greenway. The A might’ve been a better choice, I think, sliding back my sleeve to check my watch. The Audemars Piguet is probably a little over the top, but in my defense, I was already out looking for ways to track Clara down.

Last night’s driver was a bust—said he dropped her off not three minutes after pulling away from the building. Then he mentioned something about her lack of tip. I guess she had him fooled too.

Next, I went to the caterers. I called first, but no one gives addresses out over the phone. So I went to Brooklyn Heights to pay them a visit. But no amount of reassurance, backstory, or winning smiles would get them to give it out in person either. They wouldn’t even confirm she worked there.

But a happy coincidence: There were a couple of women I recognized in the parking lot as I left. The blonde, Chelsea, let slip that Clara tends bar Saturday night. What the fuck? But then she refused to say anything more before slipping inside the building. Her supervisor, Shanti, was a little more forthcoming, maybe remembering the not-insignificant tip I handed over at the end of the night.

“What do you want her for?” she asked, canting her head.

“It’s like I said last night, we know each other from way back,” I replied, going for contrite. “We dated a long time ago, and seeing her just caught me off guard.” All true so far. “We parted on . . . not-so-great terms and I was maybe a little harsh on her last night. She didn’t go back to work afterward.”

“I noticed.”

“I want to apologize. To make sure she’s okay.”

She gave a considering twist of her lips, then took a quick photo of my number plate. “No funny business,” she said, waving her phone under my nose. “Or this goes straight to the cops.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“She works at a place called O’Rourke’s, I think she said. Inwood, some place.”

As it turns out, O’Rourke’s is the neighborhood dive bar and the kind of place where a less-than-salubrious setting is made up for by the price of the beer. And it’s standing room only on Saturday night.

The soles of my shoes stick to the floor as I make my way through the crowd. I don’t head for the bar right away, instead finding a place to stand and observe. I know exactly what I want to say—what I have to offer Clara—but something in me wants to watch her a little first.

Because that’s not as creepy as all hell.

It was hard to get my head around seeing her yesterday, and it’s no easier tonight. She looks the same and yet totally different as she smiles at some random guy. Then, pushing to her tiptoes, she tweaks his ear. Something stirs inside me. It feels hard and unwelcome. It’s not fucking jealousy? I push the thought away. But there’s no disputing she works here.

Ambushing her in front of dozens of strangers doesn’t feel right. Or sane, given the way her blue-collar clientele is eating out of her hand. Maybe she’ll get a break, and I’ll talk to her then. Somewhere private because this is not the kind of conversation for other ears.

What I have to say, to offer, is wild, and maybe I’m crazy for even thinking of involving myself with her again. But there’s not a lot I won’t do in the name of success.

I roll my tense shoulders. It’s not that I’m not expecting her to tell me to fuck right off with my offer. It’s got to be better than serving beer for a living. But maybe I was a prick to her last night, kissing her, then saying I hoped I’d never see her again. I don’t feel bad about it. Not bad exactly. Not after the shit she put me through. My body sure enjoyed the feel of her. Left in charge, it would probably like to feel a whole lot more of her.

But fuck that for a plan. No way I’m getting entangled in Clara’s sticky web. Been there, done that. Scorched the fucking T-shirt. Whatever attraction seeing her has dragged up, it’s nothing but plain old horniness. And chemicals, goddamn it.

But who knows? Maybe this plan could be fun. Maybe this is where I get a little payback for all she’s done. I was so angry last night. Angry at myself for my reactions and suspicious of Clara’s motives. But now? All I can think is maybe everything does happen for a reason.

Music blares, and people drink, shout, and gesticulate while Clara works the bar like a pro. If I’d seen her like this yesterday, maybe I wouldn’t have questioned her so hard. She pulls beer and pours liquor like an expert, prepping multiple orders at the same time all while carrying on a conversation with someone else. She yells orders, takes cash, reaches for glasses without really looking, and serves shit to the regulars without missing a beat.

“You want me to cut you off?” Hands on hips, I don’t think I’ve seen her look quite so fierce.

Black pants like last night and a polo shirt embroidered with the bar’s logo do nothing to detract from her figure. She’s still all killer curves. I remember some guy, some idiot named Chip or Chad, dressed head to toe in that preppy polo-shirt-chinos combo, once remarked that Clara looked like someone drew her. It wasn’t the compliment it might’ve seemed, because the fucker said she looked like a hentai girl. Asshole got a bloody nose for his observation.

“I paid yesterday!”

The complaint pulls me back to a man sitting at the bar. I make a preemptive motion as he throws up his hand. Until I notice Clara’s unmoving stance. No need to interrupt. She’s got this.

“For the night before,” she retorts, unimpressed. “You want Irene to nail me to the sign outside for your problem?”

“Fine.” His eye roll is a whole-body action as he pulls out his wallet and hands her his bank card. “Good thing I love you, Gretch.”