Page 72 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
He slid the two pink shots in front of us, unfazed.
“No, why?”
“I was thinking of coming here with some friends, and you’re the best shot pourer in the city. Wanted to make sure you’d be here.”
There it was—that charming, lazy smile. Tristan noticed, too.
You know what he didn’t notice? Me or Rachel. We were all but two temporary obstacles standing between him and the next time he could be the reason behind that smile.
“Tell that to Bill,” Darius said, shooting a cheeky glance toward Tristan, who was trying to hide his grin behind a lengthy drag of his cocktail.
I didn’t get it. Rachel didn’t get it. Neither of us knew who Bill was.
“Inside jokes,” I mouthed to her. She rolled her eyes.
“Bring them next week,” Darius offered. “Your friends. I’ll be here.”
“What do you have going on tomorrow?”
Rachel gave my arm a little smack. I shrugged her off.
“It’s his birthday,” Tristan noted absentmindedly.
Two things happened at once: Darius stared at him, looking absolutely gobsmacked. And Tristan froze, realizing he’d slipped. Then went beet red.
I grinned.
My work here was done.
“Well, happy birthday to you, Mr. Bartender.” Seeing as how we were no longer needed, I snatched our shots and gave one to Rachel before herding her back to our little corner.
“You see?You see? How cute are they? Who would want to get in the way of?—”
She halted so abruptly that I almost tripped trying to stop myself from running into her from behind. I waited for a second, thinking she was going to start moving again once whatever was blocking our path was gone. But she remained frozen, staring at something straight ahead.
“Rach?” I slipped to her side, trying to see what had stolen her attention, but couldn’t pinpoint anything specific. The place was still packed with drunk strangers and speed-walking servers, none of them recognizable. To me, at least. “What? Did you see someone you know?”
She recovered, giving her head a little shake. “No, what, sorry?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I thought I saw… never mind.” She kept glancing back out the window, the door. Her movements seemed almost frantic, and her cheeks were pale. “You want my drink? I think I’ve had more than I…”
She went rigid, her lips parting as she sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide.
The only other time I’d seen her this scared was right after her dad disappeared. When the authorities were still pounding down doors, and private trackers and bounty hunters were ripping up floorboards, looking for him.
I whipped around, heart in my throat.
But it wasn’t her demons that had made her freeze like she’d seen a ghost.
It was mine.
23
“You’re not pickingup your phone.”
He was seconds—literalseconds—away from being murdered with the butter knife sitting on the half-empty table to my left, andthat’swhat he chose to waste his dying breath on?!
