The Detective(9)

The girl nodded. “I think she’s at the bar.”

I winked my thanks and crossed the room, weaving my way through the tables toward the bar. I didn’t see pretension anywhere. The bartender—forties, fat, caucasian, and balding—leaned his elbows on the bar top. “You look lost.”

Shaking my head, I did another scan of the room. “Looking for a girl.”

He let out a long, slow whistle, his eyes wide.

I laughed and nodded my head. “Yep, I’m looking for her.”

He pointed toward a hallway to his right. “Ladies room, I think.”

I angled onto a barstool. “Cool. Can I get a beer while I wait?”

“Of course. What’ll it be?”

I studied the taps. “Let me try that Goose Island IPA.”

“Good choice,” he said, retrieving a frosty mug from the freezer.

As he reached to place my beer in front of me, his eyes darted to a flash of red in my peripheral. When I turned my head and saw Shannon Green in a fitted red dress coming in my direction, the world seemed to stop spinning. Everything was in slow motion. Her hair was blown back by an imaginary breeze. The heavens opened up. Angels sang.

The bartender overshot my cardboard coaster, catching just the edge of the mug, and sent it toppling forward on the bar. Swearing as my crotch was doused in frozen IPA, I leapt off my barstool only to plant my feet in the center of the puddle forming on the floor. My right foot slipped, and I crash-landed in a heap by the bar.

Half the restaurant gasped; the other half applauded and laughed. Including my date.

Standing over me, with her hands clamped over her mouth, Shannon’s eyes were dancing with amusement. As I hoisted myself up, using the barstool as leverage, she giggled. “I’m sorry. Are you OK?”

I was dripping.

The bartender’s mouth was gaping with horror as he thrust a white bar towel in my direction. “Man, I’m so sorry. That was a complete accident.”

I nodded and wrung beer out of the front of my fleece pullover. I took the towel and dried my hands. “It’s OK.”

Shannon offered her hands toward me. “What can I do?”

I jerked my thumb toward the door. “I live about five minutes from here. I’m going to run home and change.”

She reached for her black purse that was draped over her shoulder. “I’ll come with you.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but I closed it and nodded instead. Truthfully, I didn’t want to leave her at the bar alone with the reaction she was getting out of every man in the room. Not that I was feeling territorial or anything. I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “You can ride with me.”

“OK. Let me settle my tab,” she said, turning back toward the bar.

The bartender held up his hand, shaking his head. “It’s on me. It’s the least I can do for all the trouble I caused.”

I wasn’t sure how paying for her drinks settled the score between us men, but I nodded my appreciation for the gesture none the less. I looked at Shannon. “Shall we?”

A smile crept across her face, and she looped her arm through mine. Had I not been soaked in booze, my chest would have puffed out with pride as every eye in the room watched us leave.

It was a short drive in a drizzling rain to my apartment, and Shannon’s perfume in the close proximity of my truck was making me a little dizzy. “Are you having a good trip?” I asked in an attempt to distract my wandering mind from the way her skirt was scrunched up under her thigh, showing a little more of her leg than she probably intended.

She brushed her hair back off her shoulder. “Yeah. I think my interview went pretty well this morning.”

“Oh, yeah. Who was it with?” I asked.

“Wake Up Wake County,” she answered.

I nodded. “Good luck with that.”

She smiled over at me, and I nearly drove into oncoming traffic.

We reached my apartment somehow in one piece, and she followed me up to the second floor. Once inside, I stripped off my pullover and walked toward the washer and dryer in the hallway. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be just a sec.”

She looked around my bare apartment. “Uh, OK.”

I had a recliner and an entertainment center that took up the whole wall. “I know it isn’t much.”

“No, it’s great,” she lied.

I chuckled and started the washer. I dropped the fleece into the machine and stripped off my t-shirt.

“Hey, is that a Glock 38?” she asked.

My mouth fell open as I turned toward her. She was walking over with her eyes on my sidearm. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

She opened her purse and produced a compact 9mm. “I carry the G43.”