Page 89 of There Are No Saints

It seems insane that I even talk to him, under the circumstances. But it’s human nature to believe the best instead of the worst. To allow yourself to be convinced. To give in to seduction.

My brain tells me he’s dangerous. My body tells me to stand closer to him, to look up into his eyes, to put my arms around his neck . . .

“Let’s get going,” I say, striding ahead so he won’t see me blush. “I don’t want to be late.”

Cole doesn’t mind walking along behind me. Sometimes I wonder if he’s stalking me or watching over me. The night is dark and foggy—I am glad he’s with me after all.

This feeling persists when he takes a table at Zam Zam and orders a drink. He sits facing me, sipping his gin and tonic, watching me set up my bar.

If any other man behaved this way—showing up unannounced, following me to work—it would infuriate me.

I don’t get sick of Cole like I do other people. In fact, if he doesn’t come to the studio every day to check up on my painting, I feel oddly empty and the work doesn’t go as well.

Knowing that he’s close by is comforting.

Before long, I lose him to the crowd. It’s Saturday night, and Zam Zam is stuffed with programmers, marketers, and students. It’s standing room only, people lined up six-deep at the bar, shouting at me for drinks.

I like bartending. I get in a flow state where my body moves faster than my brain, and I feel like a robot specifically designed for this purpose. Sometimes I channel Tom Cruise inCocktail, flipping bottles and pouring a whole line of shots at once, because it’s fun and it earns me extra tips.

The air gets thick and muggy. I’m sweating. I pull my hair up in a ponytail and strip off my sweater. I catch one glimpse of Cole, eyes narrowed at the sight of my skin-tight crop top, before he’s swallowed up by another swell of customers.

A group of twenty-something guys down at the end of the bar keep shouting for more shots. Based on the matching polo shirts and their extraordinarily boring conversation, I’m guessing they work for some biotech firm.

I bring them another round of B-52s.

“Hey,” one bleary-eyed guy says, grabbing my arm. “Can you do a blow job?”

His friends all snicker.

“What about a slippery nipple?” his buddy says.

They’re not the first geniuses to realize that some shots have dirty names.

“Do you actually want either of those?” I say.

A dozen more people are shouting for me all down the bar, and I don’t really have time for stupid jokes.

“What’s your rush?” the first guy says. “We’re tipping you, aren’t we?”

He throws a handful of crumpled bills at me, mostly ones. Half the bills land in my ice well, which really pisses me off because money is filthy—I’m gonna have to dump that ice and fill the well up fresh.

“Thanks,” I say, weighting that word with about ten pounds of sarcasm.

“Fuck you, bitch,” the second guy sneers.

I look him up and down. “Nah. I don’t do charity work.”

It takes him a second to get it, but his friends’ howls tip him off that it’s definitely an insult.

I’ve already turned away, so I don’t hear whatever he shouts back at me.

I dump the ice and run to the back to grab a fresh batch. I’m hoping by the time I get back, those idiots will have found somewhere else to congregate. Unfortunately, when I return, puffing and sweating under the weight of the ice bin, they’re still clustered in the same spot. Mr. Blue Polo Shirt glowers at me.

I pour the ice into the well, pointedly ignoring him. Then I turn to set down the empty bin.

The moment I bend over, I feel a sharp slap on my ass. I wheel around, catching Blue Shirt on top of the bar.

I’m about to shout for Tony, our bouncer, but Cole is faster. I barely have time to open my mouth before he’s appeared behind Blue Shirt like a pale grim reaper. He doesn’t grab the guy’s shoulder—doesn’t even offer a warning. Faster than I can blink, he snatches up the closest beer bottle and smashes it across the back of Blue Shirt’s skull.

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