Page 70 of Open Secrets
“You wanna get out of here?” asks the redhead who’s been eyeing me all night.
I let out a nervous laugh. “Uh, I should call my wife first. You know, check in.”
Her mouth snaps shut. “Yourwife?”
I raise my left hand, showing the ring. “Wife.”
Her face twists. “Bastard.” She pushes her chair back to leave, but I blurt, “Wait—it’s fine. She’s fine with it. We have an open marriage, so I can—”
“Have sex with me?” she yells, loud enough for half the bar to hear. “Fuck you.”
She storms off, leaving me at the table, staring into my drink and thinking,Yeah, I deserved that.
“That was hard to watch,” says a husky voice.
I glance up from my drink and wince. The bartender is leaning back against the counter, arms folded, a knowing smirk on her lips.
“You heard that, huh?”
She pushes off the counter and strolls closer, leaning on the polished wood just a few feet from me. Her perfume cuts through the tang of spilled beer.
“You had that girl eating out of the palm of your hand,” she teases. “And you just…” She lets the words trail off, eyebrows lifted.
I shrug, staring into the amber liquid in my glass. “It’s weird, okay? I mean, that girl was half my age.”
The bartender laughs softly. A throaty sound, practiced. “I guess that’s kind of sweet.”
I finally look at her, and it hits me how opposite she is from Maria.
Maria—petite, barely five-six, with dark hair that falls in waves, her figure soft and familiar, every curve burned into me after decades.
This woman—tall, long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, her frame sharp angles and long lines, like she could step straight off a runway.
She notices me staring, and her lips curve in a knowing smile. “CeCe,” she says, offering her hand over the bar.
“Lyle,” I say, shaking her hand.
And just like that, the night unspools. We talk. About nothing and everything. About duty stations, about dumb customers she’s served, about the beer list I can’t pronounce. She laughs too easily, and I let her.
Later, as she refills my glass, she says casually, “My shift ends in an hour.”
Something in her tone prickles. An opening. An invitation.
I check my watch, throat tight. “It’s late,” I say finally, and slide my stool back.
She tilts her head, that sly little smile never faltering. But she doesn’t follow me as I leave.
On the way back to my accommodations, I pull out my phone and hit Maria’s number.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hi stranger.”
I breathe out, watching my breath puff white in the cold. “Not for long, I’ll probably be home next week.”
“Oh. That’s great.” There’s a pause. Then, carefully, she adds, “I ran into your parents at Shapiro’s.”
I laugh, caught off guard. “What was that like?”
“Awkward,” she says quickly. “I got the hell out of there.”
