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Murder for a Whiskey (Ch. 3)

Chapter: Curse Me Good | AO3 | M.LIST ghost x hellcat!you | multi-POV | 18+ | 6.7k wc |

series cw: trauma, alcohol, ptsd, explicit sexual content, depression, mild blood kink, mild spit kink, stalking, no one is healthy, everyone is a bisexual disaster, guns

What happens when a loaded weapon meets a wild animal. part one. part two. part three.

[9-29 06:43AM]

When walking east, the cabin you live in is 3.25 kilometers from the Copperline. There are fourteen structures along the path that face the lake. Six are family residences that average 3.2 civilian occupants. Five are single occupant cabins utilized as solitary hunting bases. Three are unoccupied or unspecified.

Your cabin is the fifteenth.

A two story timber cabin constructed with cedar shingle exterior and exposed timber framing. The structure sits on a raised stone foundation along the shoreline of the fresh water lake. The roof, a steep A-frame with extended side overhangs, supports its primary architectural feature: a full height glass facade that dominates the lake-facing wall. Its estimated footprint is approximately 12 to 14 meters wide and 9 to 11 meters in depth. A timber deck spans the lower level made of pressure-treated lumber with timber railing. Located at the center of the deck is a primary staircase with 14 observed steps that leads to a dock at the shoreline.

It is not cared for well.

There are 7 points of exit: central sliding doors (deck), secondary deck door, possible rear street-side door, and windows for emergency egress.

There are 4 points of compromise: large glass windows that provide minimal concealment for occupants, a single staircase choke point, an exposed dock entry route, and a tree line that allows for concealed observation within 10 to 12 meters of the structure.

As the sun rises, it paints the interior gold, making the place look less like a structure and more like a sanctuary. When you wake on the couch, tilting your head back to bask in the morning light, the glow holds you both in silence.

Good morning.

*

[9-29 10:45AM]

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to text my ex, but you can fuck a guy with no face?”

“Tara, that’s different,” you say, half listening, half cursing the state of the speedrack. Whoever closed last night did a shit-fucking job. Garnishes left out, bottle pourers uncovered and sticky with sour mix. You silently mouth who the fuck before catching yourself. It was you. You did a shit-fucking job.

“Different because he has a face?” Tara asks.

“Different because Ethan was an asshole to you,” you say, flipping the rag from your shoulder to clean each bottle, returning them to the rack one by one.

“And that guy wasn’t an asshole?”

You shoot a look over your shoulder as she leans against the back bar. She almost looks her age with her hair pulled back and her pink rimmed glasses on. They’d be swapped shortly for contacts before the lunch crowd.

“Does it matter?” you ask.

She scrunches her face in thought. “Shouldn’t it matter?”

You press your tongue against the wound in your mouth from the night before. You return to work. “Clean something. Please. Patrice’ll be in soon. I can hear her already–”

“Time to lean, time to clean,” Tara imitates, pushing herself off the bar with a sigh. She drags her feet into the back as if she’s dying.

You work in silence, cleaning up your own mess, before slamming the last bottle into the rack.

“Fuck ‘em mean, hope they’re clean,” you say to the empty stools. They’re flipped upside down on the bartop, with their legs spread above their head. Mocking you.

Tara was wrong. Assholes didn’t matter when you were an asshole, too.

You stock glasses, fill ice wells, and purge the lines of yesterday’s foam. Tara cuts her cuticles and two limes. She wins rock-paper–shoot and gets to dictate the playlist. You count dimes at the register to Sabrina Carpenter.

Eventually, you hear the familiar shoulder-check thunk, then the scrape on the floor. The front door sticks before it opens after years of lake damp air. On instinct, your eyes shoot up to check the large amber mirror that sits behind the bar.

It’s the first regular.

Tara waves as if signalling the usual characters to their places. Her hair is pulled back in a clip and she claims the first couple of rounds. Lunch begins.

Two more. Then three. You pay the mirror at each thunk of the door, before retreating to the back register of the bar. You’re happy to let Tara work, even though you only get paid in tips. You haven’t conjured enough small talk to sell just yet. And you like hearing Patrice hum in the kitchen before the orders get hectic.

You help by pouring soft drinks and sliding beers. You smile and disengage, reminded of your mouth wound every time you fake it too long. You fill the time by drawing on receipt paper at the register. The pen steals your time until you’re summoned; which Tara does just a few seconds-hours-minutes later as she peeks over your shoulder at your drawing.

“Is it like some kind of cultural thing?” She asks, before looking at herself in the mirror’s reflection.

You scrunch your face in confusion, resisting the urge to flip it over. It’s not like it was any good. “What? It’s just a bunch of—”

“Not you,” she corrects. “Him.” She points over her shoulder into the dining room, her eyes still on her own reflection as she inspects her make up. “Sasha Colby once judged this queen wearing the wildest Hot Topic head piece I’ve ever seen and instead of being rude she said, Is it a cultural thing? And I just love that so I stole it and—”

You look up, wondering what the hell she’s talking about.

When the fuck did he get here?

In the darkest corner in the booth farthest from the bar sits the Lieutenant. Hood up. Mask on. Menu in hand.

“It’s some kind of stupid thing,” you say.

He looks worse in the daylight. Like some statue whose features had been stripped from years of bad weather. He’s shoved himself in six different shades of black between the jackets and jeans, hood and mask. His gloves clutch at the menu like two tactical clamps. His head is tilted down to read, but his eyes stick to the door.

“He looks lonely,” Tara says to you.

“He looks stupid,” you say.

She grins, before turning around to shout, “Hey!” while waving at him from her toes. “You look lonely!”

“And stupid,” you say louder, turning with your arms crossed. Leaning with your back against the register.

You think he glances at you, but he’s unreadable from this distance - especially with the mask. You wonder if he always sits with his shoulders hunched like that, as if the world pressed at his back. But that can’t be true. He’d been so much broader when you were raking your nails over him the night before.

“Grab a seat if ya wanna eat!” Tara continues, plucking a menu and waving that too, “Specials are on the back!”

He stays still, not acknowledging her. Drops the menu on the table and goes back to looking at the door. Watching or waiting or whatever.

You return to your drawing. Trying not to think about the kind of company that he prefers to keep. The people in your town weren’t exactly a tender lot. Lots of hunters and ex husbands, service-outcasts, gun enthusiasts and cops.

Ugly fucking cops.

You crumple the drawing and shove it in your pocket.

“Havin’ a smoke,” you say, avoiding eye contact with Tara. You slip past her before she responds with her usual script. You know it’s bad for you. You know that it’s early. You know you can just drink instead. You ignore them, opting to disappear through the kitchen doors — where Patrice is waiting with a smile.

“Who’s stupid now?” she asks, wiping her hands on the front of her apron before leaning over the expo table. It’s a pink number with flowers that her son gifted her for Christmas. She matches her lipstick to it, regardless that no one sees her from the kitchen line.

“Havin’ a smoke,” you repeat, rifling through the coatrack. Your heads down as you fish through the pockets of your jacket, avoiding her eyes as well. According to the lilt in her voice, she already knows.

“Y’mean havin’ a bloke?” She slaps a poor British accent on the last word making herself laugh.

“Porque no los dos?” you ask, tipping your head over your shoulder to smile at her, cigarette already perched between your lips. She laughs as you push through the door, the cold air licking at your fingers. Then stop.

Jacket?

You roll your eyes, grab your jacket, and slip out into the back lot. When the door slams behind you and the cold takes you under, you still. You breathe.

You loved the back lot. Inside, everything was noise - glass on wood, radio greatest hits, voices stacked atop each other needing things from you. Out here, it all fell away. No one followed you here. A little piece of something unclaimed and unbothered. Something just yours. Somewhere to be alone.

You kick down the steps, knees creaking as you lower yourself down to sit, shoulders loosening, the tension draining out of your spine inch by inch.

And then you stop again.

There, on the top step, right where you’re about to sit—

The lighter.

You know it immediately. Cheap and covered in skulls. The same one the Lieutenant had kicked from your hand the night before. Standing up right. Deliberately placed.

You stare at it.

Stupid thing.

You glance at the treeline, half-expecting to see him, but there’s nothing. Shadows and branches. You stare at it again before leaning forward, picking it up slowly, turning it over in your hands. You should have felt uneasy. Someone had been here. Someone had been in your space without you knowing. Without your consent. Your space had been changed. You weren’t alone.

Your thumb flicks the wheel once, the flame sparking to life before you realize what you’d done. You watch it for a second, the small, steady burn, then snap it shut.

A faint smile pulls at the corner of your lips.

You walk back inside without lighting your cigarette.

The door thuds shut behind you, and the noise rushes back in like it’s been waiting for you: laughter, stainless steel appliances, the drag of other people's conversations over Tara’s radio hitlist. You hang your coat on the same hook, fingering your smoke back into a pocket, but the lighter stays in your hand.

“Well that was a quick one,” Patrice says, materializing from the walk-in. Her arms are full of raw vegetables as she shimmies past you, still smiling: “You’ll quit in no time.”

You press your tongue against your cheek. The little pain drowns her out.

You pull yourself together before returning to the bar. Fix hair, fill bra, hike pants. But the Lieutenant’s not in his seat by the door when you push through the kitchen doors and maybe he’s gone because it’s not like you’re looking for him. Then you see him.

He’s sitting in Jake’s seat.

Right there, at the corner of the bar by your register. One elbow resting easy, body angled just enough to watch the room without looking like he’s watching at all.

You smooth something invisible off the front of your shirt and step towards him. You set the lighter down in front of him with a deliberate clink on the bartop. There’s dirt in the seams from where it should’ve stayed in the woods.

“Shouldn’t leave your shit around,” you say, leaning back against the register. “And stop going back there. The owners don’t like it.”

The Lieutenant turns towards you, body first then eyes, dragging it out as if he’ll miss something in the dining room. He stares through you as if seeing nothing. Present, but gone, making you wonder if he heard you. If he was in front of you at all.

You scoff. And something in him switches on.

“Hellcat,” he states, as if it serves as a greeting. It’s not like he knew your real name anyway. You hadn’t offered it and he hadn’t asked. He scoops the lighter, with his weathered glove before perching it upright again. His eyes shoot to yours, “Lighten up.”

You squint, then cock your head. Should you kill him? Should you laugh? You cross your arms and measure your response. “...is that some kind of joke?”

He keeps his eyes on yours as if expecting something.

“No,” he says evenly, “It’s a lighter.”

You stare at him. Locked in some kind of contest where you try to keep your face as still as possible. Hyper aware of the tightness in your lips that keeps trying to betray you by making you smile. It makes the inside of your cheek hurt. You taste copper.

“You’re in Jake’s seat,” you say, pushing off the register. You place a sponsored coaster in the seat to his right, setting a place for him at the unclaimed spot. Napkin next. If he orders food, it will raise your tip percentage.

“Doesn’t seem to need it,” he says. You can feel his eyes on you.

You look back at him, considering if it’s worth arguing over, before returning to set down cutlery, “Yeah, well. You should move. He insists on that shit.”

“Insists,” he repeats as if discovering the word for the first time.

You place a steak knife. “He tips well.”

“Well,” he says, shifting in his seat to fully take it up, “My tip’s bigga.”

You don’t laugh, alright? And you don’t smile when he taps the bartop, indicating where his place setting should go: right in front of where he's already seated. You flick the lighter, sending it into his chest. It hits him with a soft pap, then skitters on the bar floor.

“What’re y’drinkin?” you ask. The question comes out without thinking. You’re paid to be a doll with a draw string at your job, after all.

“Same as last,” he says, as he gingerly reaches towards the coaster to slide it in front of himself. He watches you as if you’ll say no, then adds: “And a pint of lager.”

Right, you think. Waiting for someone.

Muscle memory moves you. Second coaster at the seat beside him. Glass, tap, pour, place the beer. Glass, rack, pour, place the bourbon-whiskey. It doesn’t mean anything to you when you set the rocks glass in front of the Lieutenant, but it must to him because he hums and nods in approval.

People like being remembered.

You retreat to your register, pressing the touch screen to close Jake’s tab and open one for…fuck, what was his name? Lieutenant…Rocky? Rudy? It was some fuckin’ dog name you didn’t care about remembering. You punch “LIEU” for Lieutenant into the system. Good enough.

“Anything from the kitchen?” you ask, turning back to him. A little bourbon is gone and he’s adjusting the mask back down his chin. Maybe he’s butt-ugly under there. Absolutely deformed. You can respect that you’d want to hide that too.

“Meat,” he states, like it’s a normal order and not something a sociopath would say after pretending to look at a menu for the past 30 minutes. Your face says what the fuck. He continues, rushing through his response with a frustrated wave, “Protein, scran, ah dun’ fuckin’ know. Wah'eva's good."

“And your friend?” you ask, nodding towards the second seat, now set with a cold beer. “Getting something started or waiting til they get here?”

He considers you, eyes tightening like he’s working something out before answering: “Meat as well.”

“...right,” you state, hesitating before turning to the register to punch in what ever the fuck meat might mean. It’s tempting to upcharge him to something expensive; a 15% tip on two surf-and-turf dinners with booze would cover at least one of the dinners you had to scrounge for this week. You feel dishonest over the math and punch in two steak-bite plates instead.

“Meat,” Tara says, appearing at your side to pull a bottle of Rumplemintz from the wall. “Stupid meat.”

You laugh. The ticket spits. And just like that, the conversation with the Lieutenant is over. Your script has been delivered. Small talk offers only. You acknowledge him with a soft, customer service smile and retreat, pen in hand, back to your register until called.

Eyes, face, lines, skulls. You draw as the bar hums around you. People clinking, their glasses speaking. You glance into the mirror in intervals as you wait for that feeling - the one the Copperline taught you over the years. The feeling of eyes on your back. The snap of fingers or the lean-in voice that wants you to turn around.

Regulars like Jake had conditioned you into it. Trained you with the constant pull of performance while not-so-silently promising more tip money if you laughed at their jokes. If you turned when they tapped at the bar. If you danced. You got used to checking, over and over. Automatic. Like blinking.

You do it now. Catching the regular’s snapping at Tara for another round. Catching the skidding silhouette of a car in the lot. Catching the Lieutenant’s…nothing. You tilt your head. Nothing-nothing. He’s still as a post, fingertips pressed against his glass doing nothing. Dead eyes on his own reflection in the mirror. No focus point. Nothing.

Weird.

You’re the one looking now. And you shouldn’t be (you weirdo). You turn away. Adjust bottles that don’t need adjusting. Wipe a spot that’s already clean. You don’t look again until you do. You want him to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. Scroll or check the time. Act like a normal person sitting alone at a bar who’s waiting for someone who’s late, but he doesn’t. He nothings.

Thunk.

The door bangs open. The McGuires. Regulars that are loud and familiar and immediate as they walk into the bar. You’d puked in their backyard on your way home more times than you could count. They never knew.

“Christ,” you say, turning from the mirror with a familiar smile to gesture at the door. “You guys live here or something?”

They laugh. (They always laugh.) You fall into it without thinking - grabbing glasses, pouring before they finish ordering, suggesting a side, a second round, something to pad the tab. Easy money, easy rhythm.

“Expo!” Patrice calls, her voice rings like a bell.

Oh. Right. Meat.

You move to the window to grab both plates, enjoying the way the heat bleeds through the bottom against your palms. It feels like real food, compared to the cold take-home containers you pick from during your shifts. This steamed, each piece of meat seared by the kiss of the grill with a soft pink inside, carrying the mean smell of salt and char and browned garlic butter. You set the first plate down in front of him, then the second, ceramic clicking against the wood. It’s only then that he moves, lifting his head to look at you with a short nod.

“Meat,” you say, imitating his accent for the first syllable. “Good luck eatin’ without a mouth, Lieu.” You bring your palms to the front of your face, pulling them apart toward either side of your head, signaling ‘mask’, before turning away. Back to your register. Picking up your pen. Minding your business.

You know yourself too well. You don’t need answers as to what lies under his mask. Don’t need to know about his lips or his teeth or his jaw. It’s better to press your heel down on the thought while it's a small seed without roots. God forbid there's a crooked smile under there. You bite the inside of your cheek again.

Sketch. Pour beer. Shade. Pour wine. Scribble. Pour bourbon. The back and forth rhythm of the shift takes hold, allowing you to take rounds and tips. Pacing the same length back and forth and greeting the same faces. You tell yourself to forget the Lieutenant at your back who doesn’t look at you, even when it’s your job to look at him. Just to check on him. To wonder.

He eats like a savage. Uses his hands to shovel his food into the void (where his lips would be), covering his already dirty gloves in grease and blood. Hides his face with his hood up, hunching over his plate like a snarling dog. You think about stealing a piece of meat just to see if he’d bite at your finger tips. Or if he’d lick them clean.

Tara’s laughter spills behind the bar, shaking her head and waving at the air between her and an older customer. Of the four rum-and-cokes he ordered, he was pushing one back to her, pressuring her to take it.

“I couldn’t!” she squeals, making a show of picking up the glass and bringing it to her lips. “This is too kind, babes. You’re gonna get me in trouble!” She strings them along with little coos and laughter before taking a sip, then scrunches her nose. “Phew! Give whoever poured this a big tip, am I right? Such a strong pour.”

First drink of the night.

You both prefer money over the free drinks people tip you, but it’s not like you can say no. Saying no meant no tip. No tip, no income. Learning to say yes to things you didn’t want was a skill that took years to learn. Fortunately, it got easier every time.

You got easier.

You do your rounds, one by one like an assembly line, collecting plates, closing people out, refilling drinks, checking each patron before you retreat. Not hard, since you only have four parties: two are in their cups, the third an-early-bird-dinner and the fourth…

Two empty plates sit at Jake’s seat, neatly stacked and wiped clean. Beer glass empty, rocks glass gone. The Lieutenant isn’t there. Just an empty setting with a credit card pressed on the bar top.

“Huh.”

You’re not disappointed that he’s gone, alright? You’re relieved. Nothing new will slide into the empty seat after him. Which is good, because it’ll be someone you don’t want to watch. Instead of this random fucking bloke named – you pluck his card between two fingers and read it - “Kate Laswell?”

You stare at the name, thumbing each letter in silence.

Of course.

You press the card back on the counter. Laugh.

Of course there was a woman somewhere. There almost always was with these military types. Always someone waiting with one of their shirts, hoping the scent would bring them home. Parts of you wish you were a better person. But at least you were better than her last night.

“Havin’ a smoke,” you say to Tara.

Outside, the sun slips behind the trees and the night bites through your shirt. The woods beyond the lot stand black and crowded, all bare branches. You wrap your arms around yourself to shield the cold, but immediately lock up and groan.

“Fuck, dude,” you say, trudging down the steps, hands flying in frustration. “Come on. Are you actually fucking stupid or something?”

The Lieutenant is there. Of course he’s there. Standing just beyond the yellow smear of light, half in it, half out. He leans against the wall, rocks glass in one hand, a flip-phone in the other, both swallowed in his gloves. His hoods up, but you catch the sliver of his jaw from the side. Pale. Stubbled. White guy action figure type of chin you want to chew.

“The owners do not want people back here,” you state. The pressure rises in your chest.

He clips his phone closed. It’s an old one. A burner. The kind you’ve seen passed around by men who didn’t want their bosses, dealers, parole officers, or wives knowing where they were. He tucks it inside his jacket pocket. Takes a sip of his bourbon.

“And you shouldn’t be drinking back here either,” you add immediately.

You can’t tell if he’s smoking. He isn’t looking at you. His breath comes out in pale clouds, rolling slowly in the cold.

“And I mean it, Lieu,” you continue, kicking down the steps, slamming your heels, “Don’t leave your shit here. Someone will take Kate’s card right off the bar and max it out.”

He looks at you. Or you think he does. It’s impossible to tell where his eyes settle with the mask in the dark..

“I don’t want to deal with bank calls or fraud alerts from angry-military-wives or whatever comes with you people so just-” you claw at your pockets, retrieving your pack of cigarettes, “Handle your shit.”

He says nothing, standing there with his secrets tucked in his jacket and his face hidden behind fabric. Doesn’t deny or explain. Barely acknowledges that you spoke outside of a single, slow nod, like that’s supposed to cover all of it. You wait anyway. Like an idiot. Waiting for him to answer or argue or give you something to push against.

He doesn’t.

“Great talk,” you spit, settling on one of the steps, looking towards the treeline. You actively focus on ignoring the little live wire in you that sparks. The part of you that wants to fight.

You pull a smoke from the pack and set it between your lips, then start digging for your lighter. Front pocket. No. Back pocket. No. Front pocket. Your hands turn sharp with frustration, making your movements look more desperate than you want it to and –where the fuck? How the fuck do you keep doing this? Y’can’t even handle your own shit and…

He whistles. Your head snaps up before you can stop it. Hate that. You glare. He holds one hand out toward you from where he is at the wall, palm up, two gloved fingers curling in a slow gimme gesture.

“Oh fuck off,” you hiss, words shaping around the cigarette lodged at the side of your lips, “What? You need something from me? I’m on break.”

You roll your eyes and return to checking around your seat. Maybe it fell out of your pocket. At the edge of your vision, he paws his mask back down his face. Takes a step closer. Clears his throat.

“Need you to get a jacket,” the Lieutenant says. He towers over you like this when you’re sitting, reminding you how small you are. How cold. He points at your cigarette, then curls his fingers with another gimme gesture. You do as he asks, dropping the smoke in his palm. He places it in his mouth, bobbing from the mask as he produces a lighter (the lighter).

Tchk.

It flares to life with the bite of his thumb. He takes a deep pull to ensure it takes, causing the tip to burn cherry red, then exhales a plume of smoke. He offers it back to you, perched between two fingers. You think he’s kind as you reach for it but he nicks away. Chuckling. He brings it to his ‘mouth’ for another drag.

“Shouldn’t smoke with a mouth injury,” he states. White clouds roll from his mask as he speaks.

“Oh double fuck off,” you spit, eyes like daggers, resisting the urge to crumple your pack and throw it at him, “You gave it to me.”

“An’ stop fuckin’ with it,” he continues.

“I don’t fuck with it.”

“Won’t heal if you keep fuckin’ with it. Rot ya mouth,” he says casually, leaving you at the steps to lean back against the wall. He ashes the cigarette with a flick of his thumb, “An’ good luck bitchin’ wit’ no mouth.”

“Yeah?” You’re standing now, challenging, arms crossed to contain the boiling in your chest.

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

He lifts his glass, shaking it towards you, “Another.”

“Fuck you.” You snatch the glass from him with a snarl, hard enough that bourbon sloshes over the rim and spills across your knuckles. Before you can think better of it, you suck the liquor from your skin. It’s too expensive to waste: Old Turkey Rare Breed at $14 a glass. You pull it against your chest as you settle back down on the steps, keeping your eyes pinned on him, “I’m on break.”

The Lieutenant laughs.

“Not for long,” he levels. He steps towards the front lot, then pauses at the edge of the light: “Not without a jacket.”

He disappears into the dark.

Fuck him. You scoff, taking a sip of his drink after he’s gone. The smell of it brings you back to last night, when it was pumped down your throat in the passenger seat. It warms your lips, your cheeks, then your throat. Grease smears along the sides. Blood too, from his meal, stuck near the base from his gloves.

“Filthy boy,” you hiss and swig. Your fingertips worry at the marks on the glass. How dirty were his gloves last night when he touched you? Or… had he touched you? You take another sip. You don’t remember all of it. Not cleanly anyway. You remember his truck and the brass bullets on the floor. His mask in your teeth and the blood in your mouth. But he didn’t tear at you. You know that. He didn’t claw at your tits. Didn’t rip some wet part of you open. Didn’t take anything you didn’t offer first.

He just held you. (You sip again). He hurt you, then he held you. Then he let you go.

You down the rest and welcome the burn.

It’s a stubborn ten minutes before you pour yourself back inside, empty glass in hand, slipping past Patrice and Tara to return to the bar. The Lieutenant’s back from wherever the hell he went. Back in Jake’s seat at the end of your bar. Back to doing nothing with nothing in front of him. Did he notice how long you lasted outside with out a stupid fucking jacket?

You decide to work the bar with Tara. Really work this time, checking on each customer with a custom charisma that lets you earn your keep. You fill your hands with their orders and your head with their noise and suddenly you have use. You make jokes where they fit and smile with your teeth when someone tips well enough to deserve them. It’s another ten minutes before you make it down the line, grinning with a bottle of Rare Breed in hand for the Lieutenant.

“Don’t cover this one in blood,” you say, setting a new glass before him on the bar. You grin with all the spite and anger from the back lot crackling under your skin. You want a reaction. You want—

“Wasn’t his,” he whispers, his eyes dropping from the mirror to his gloves, “They said tha’ mattered but it don’t matter…”

You cock your head in confusion. You can barely hear him. Barely recognize the words or how he says them beneath his mask. You know they aren’t meant for you, but you take them anyway.

“Doesn’t matter,” you correct, pushing the glass into his hand. You wait for his eyes to drift up to yours, but he stays lost in his palms. So you continue to run your mouth. “Who actually wants to matter, anyway?” You flick the rim. “Can you imagine that? Mattering to someone? Must be so fuckin’ awkward.”

He scoffs, shaking his head, looking at you with something unreadable in his eyes. Fucking mask. You know the little lines gathering at the corner of his eyes mean something. You hate not knowing what.

”Where’zee then?” The Lieutenant asks, picking the glass up and gesturing to the rest of the bar. The volume is back up on his accent. His shoulders seem to swell with it, filling out his jacket, making him look broader than he already is.

“What?”

“Yer boyfriend,” he states, “The one who insists.”

Jake. You scrunch your face in revulsion. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“No?” He asks mockingly, cocking his head with a malicious ignorance. “Thought we were makin’ assumptions today.”

“There’s no we,” you state.

“No ‘he’ either, it seems,” he says, cheers-ing the empty seat beside him before bringing the glass to his face. He pauses, as if remembering the mask and adds: “No ‘she’ neither.”

“What, y’disappointed he didn’t show?” You ask. You’re idling when you know you should be leaving, pressing your palms against the bar. “Ya lookin’ for a fight or something?”

“Always,” he says. You believe him.

You bite back a grin. “I’ll fight you, Lieu.”

“Nah,” he chuckles, brushing you off with a lazy gesture. You remember how his low laughter felt when it rumbled inside of you.

“I could,” you assure him, crossing your arms. You mean it. He doesn’t know you. (You’d lose, of course, but—)

He nods. “Sure ya could, Hellcat.”

“I should.”

“Y’should,” he agrees softly. His eyes scour your features before they tick back to your own. He places his drink on the bar top then leans forward wolfishly, “But y’won’t.”

“An why’s that?” You can’t help it. You’re leaning on your palms, chin up, challenging him to say what they all say. (‘Because you like me.’ ‘Because I’m great in bed.’ ‘Because I’d kill you.’)

“Cause y’fockin’ hate me.”

Laughter bursts out of you before you can stop it. Not a bar-one, a real one. Sharp and sudden with your head tipping back and your neck exposed. You feel the eyes of the bar on you and quickly correct yourself, tucking your shitty grin between your teeth. The wound in your mouth is on fire.

“Not enough, apparently,” you say.

“Or not at all…” he ventures, placing the words gently between the two of you as if testing the weight of them. With his amber eyes and those little lines all pointed at you. Watching you. Wanting you?

No. Not wanting you. (You remind yourself.) Wanting you to want him. (You should know the difference by now. Idiot girl.) You taste blood.

You grin and cautiously pluck his glass from his grip. There’s already grime from his gloves on the edge. His eyes follow. You bring it close, then spit directly into it.

“Get fucked, Lieu,” you say, placing it back before sucking the residue from your thumb.

His gaze stays on yours. For one second. Two. Then he picks it up. His other hand rises to the edge of his mask, hooking one gloved finger beneath the black fabric. He rucks it up just enough to bring the glass to his lips. He drinks. A large swallow of bourbon, ice and you. His jacket obscures how his throat takes you down, but his mask stays over his lips to give you a brief, brutal glimpse of his face.

Stubble and scars stretch over a hard chin. The narrow stripe of his lower lip and the fresh wounds that split it. The carved and wicked thing that counted as the corner of his mouth. Real skin where myth could have been but he made himself human. He keeps his eyes pinned on yours the entire time.

He places it down, then pulls down the mask before sliding it back towards you, “Another.”

You scoff or laugh or hum, shaking your head where words should go. He watches you, waiting with his gloves cupping his glass. After a moment, he asks: “You walkin’ home tonight?”

“If this is about a jacket—“ you start.

“No,” he shakes his head. Pauses, then starts again, “Lemme give you a ride home.”

“Why?” (You know damn well why.)

“Wot, y’think it’s safer to walk home alone in the dark?”

“Safer than showing a stranger who’s got my blood on his mask where I live?”

He stares at you in silence, probably letting you hear how bitchy you sound. He’s unreadable when he answers you: “Six and a half minute drive.”

The words hang between you.

The front door swings open before you decide what to do with them. Cold air rushes in with a half dozen voices. Tara shepherds them to their places with: “Anywhere you like!”

It’s the sounds of a paycheck.

The bourbon sits between his gloves. You reach out and tap the side of his glass with your knuckle. “If something happens,” you say, almost apologetically, “I’d deserve it.”

Your eyes catch his one last time before you push away from the bar and throw yourself back into the shift.

_

The rush swallows you whole. Tickets multiply faster than Tara can stab them on the rail. Extra sides of ranch. Shaken not stirred. Wings but only flats. A birthday group. Some argument about the pool table. Smile. Swipe. Change. Next. Smile. Swipe. Change.

The rhythm of it gets you by the wrist. By the time the crowd thins, you’ve convinced it’s been hours. And maybe it has. Because when you finally return to your side, wiping down the stretch of bar where the Lieutenant had been sitting, he’s gone. The seat is empty. And the whiskey glass is gone too.

In place sits a tidy stack of cash. Crisp enough to fight each other as you count them. It’s enough to pay for the meal twice over. Tucked within the stack is a piece of torn receipt paper with scribbled letters you don’t understand.

SOZ

SR

LOO

The center letters are struck through so hard the paper almost tears. Under it all, a crude little drawing of a skull. You stare at it longer than you mean to, letting your thumb run along the ink. You fold the note once, then slip it into your pocket.

Closing comes slowly. The kitchen closes. Stools go upside down and the lights dim one row at a time. Tara makes you count the tip pool because she hates the feel of new bills on her hands.

“Check-in with me when you’re home,” she says as always, when she leaves thirty minutes before her shift ends.

“Never,” you answer as always, when you stay thirty minutes after your shift ends. You pour yourself a drink. And so what if it’s Rare Breed again. (There’s a sweet spot with it, you’ve learned, that keeps you warm for the walk home.)

“I’m serious,” Tara says abruptly, peering through the mountainous layers of her pink winter coat. She breaks your usual pattern, idling near the door with her hand on the lock. “Humor me. I’ve got a bad vibe.”

“Try changing the batteries,” you offer with a smile. She frowns. She knows you too well to let you avoid her (and she doesn’t get the joke).

“Be for real, Hellcat,” she says, emphasizing the name with a devious smile. It leaves no room for you to run away from who she’s talking about. You hide your embarrassment by taking a sip. She continues: “That’s the second day in a row he hasn’t asked for your number. Or asked for your name. Why do you think that is?”

“Because he’s taken,” you answer into your cup.

“No,” she corrects, “Because he might already have it.” She pulls her hood up, her face disappears behind a porthole of white fur. “His friend, that hot one from the other night, doesn’t have volume control when he’s drunk. They’re not like the grunts around here.”

“You mean they’re British?”

“I mean they’re the real deal. Dangerous. And like, let’s be real,” she says, fussing with the fur lining in her face. “That’s really hot. So maybe you should consider asking for his number next time. And text me when you’re home. Especially if he’s in the lot tonight waiting for you again…you know what? Just give me your phone, I’ll set the automatic check-in text. Gimme.”

It’s another five minutes of Tara before you’re left to close. Another thirty for you to finish your whiskey. You snug the fuck up, zipping and snapping and clasping before the whiskey steals the use of your fingers. The winter gear makes you eight years old again, packaged by your Mother for a snow day. It’s a relief no one sees you like this. (You vulnerable, waddling Stay-Puff Man, you.)

“Unless he’s in the lot tonight waiting for you…” you say in Tara’s accent.

You set the alarm. Dead bolt the door. Trot through the kitchen and slip out to the back, avoiding the front lot all together. It was too good of a day to give a shit. With a take home of $92, you wouldn’t have to ration your meals this week. You greet the cold night with a grin, slipping your hand into your jacket to celebrate your earnings. Finding a filthy little skull lighter tucked in the front pocket.

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