Page 1 of Watch Me
Inever thought I would be forty-two and divorced with two kids.
But Iwas.
My father was a retired Chicago police chief, and one day, I hoped to follow in his footsteps and become chief before I retire. I was quickly working my way up in the ranks, and in the last two years, I had gone from detective to sergeant. One of the reasons for my promotion was my involvement in a situation that involved mysister.
Three years ago, I’d walked into her condo and found her drugged unconscious by a stalker trying to kidnap her. The fucker had a gun pointed at her boyfriend—who was trying to stop him—and before the perp could fire, I did. I shot the asshole square in the forehead and killedhim.
It was thejob.
It was in my blood toprotect.
It wasmysister.
Needing a place to live, I moved into the condo where I’d killed him. To some, it might be creepy, but it made me smile every time I walked over the spot where he died because it was a reminder that I had saved my sister and my future brother-in-law’slives.
And I’d do itagain.
Since my divorce a year ago, I worked as much as possible unless it was my night or weekend with my sons. Those times were for them and only them. The case I’d been working on was closed, and I had no kids waiting for me. In fact, I had no one waiting for me. So, I did what my sister and her husband used to do when they weresingle.
I walked down the street to Judy’s, the neighborhoodbar.
Start living your life fearlessly. This is the beginning of anything you want.
Two months ago, I’d read those words on a sticky note next to my laptop over and over before hitting the submit button on my school application. Class started last week, and it would take me ten short weeks to get my crime scene investigation certification.
I’d always been interested in solving crimes. When I went off to college after high school, I obtained my bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. I never worked in the field because I got married right after college, and then about a year later, I had my daughter. But, when I hit the submit button, it felt good to make a decision to do what I wanted to do after so many years of putting others beforeme.
Two years after the divorce, I was still living in Denver and my daughter was starting her freshman year at the University of Michigan. Since I was born and raised in the Windy City, and Chicago was a lot closer to her school than Denver, I made the move back a few months ago. That way I could help her if she needed it but still be far enough away that she was on her own doing her thing, which meant I needed to do my own thing, too.
For the last twenty or so years, I worked as a wife and mother, but had a come-to-Jesus moment after a bottle of wine by myself and decided to take back my life, find out who I was at age forty-one, and get certified in a field I’d always had an interest in. I needed excitement in my life, and what better way than to help put criminals behind bars? Even though the certification was the bare minimum in the CSI field, I was okay with that. It was like dipping my toe in the pool to test the waters. If, after getting a job in the field, I loved it, then I would look into becoming an analyst or senior analyst. Plus, since I’d never actually worked in criminal justice since I earned my degree, I needed a refresher on current techniques andprocedures.
With the wine still coursing through my veins, I’d had anothera-hamoment. I’d tended bar when I was in college and knew it was a great way to make extra money, so I decided to become a bartender again while pursuing my CSI certification. I needed to make a little bit of an income while in school despite getting spousal support from my ex. By taking a forty-hour online course, I freshened up my bartending skills and found a job at the local bar.
Because of my school schedule, I worked the mid-shift at Judy’s Thursday through Sunday from four to midnight. It was good hours, and I would still be able to get my classwork done during the week.
“Hey, Tommy,” I greeted as I stepped behind the bar. “Busy afternoon?”
“No more than usual. After work crowd should be here soon.” He filled a pint glass with beer as hespoke.
“Perfect,” I replied and grabbed a towel to wipe thebartop.
“Oh, and a new barback should be here soon too,” Tommyadvised.
“Okay. Sounds good.”
A few minutes later, Judy came from the back with a guy in tow. “Tommy, Reagan, this is Derrick, your new barback.” We all shook hands, and then Judy left to work in her office while Derrick shadowed Levi, the other barback.
People started to trickle in, and the bar was humming with laughter and conversations. I tried to keep up with all the orders, and I was proud of myself for doing so well after only a week. It felt good to be back behind the bar—despite my aching feet—and I knew I’d made the right decision to do something for me even if it was working behind a bar. It wasfun.
Throughout the next few hours, Tommy would ask if I needed help, but I didn’t. I was in the zone. Whiskey sours, margaritas, Negronis—they weren’t a challenge for me. At seven, our closing bartender, Frank, and his barback arrived.
The crowd was steady, and the drinks were flowing. The atmosphere of Judy’s was amazing because this was just what I’d wanted when I came back to bartending—working with people again, feeling useful and making money. What I hadn’t expected was being hit on by patrons. It used to happen when I tended bar in college, but I’d assumed it wouldn’t happen to me this time since I was over forty.
I waswrong.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” a guy with slicked-back gray hair and a mustache asked. He was dressed in a suit, which gave me the impression he’d come straight fromwork.
I leaned on the bar, already knowing where this was going, and decided to play into it because I knew I could get more tips if I flirted. “Reagan.”
