| |
BJ was well aware she flirted with danger by coming to the same hotel Jacob wanted to bring her for a little huggin’ and lovin’. In the public restroom outside the lounge she finished drying her hands, and used the paper towel to pull open the door. Threw the white paper in a black trash can. Had a little déjà vu moment.
At five-thirty in the evening, the lounge was near empty. She cut across the room to the short side of the smooth and glossy rectangular bar. On the opposite end, three men chatting amiably fell silent. The tall, thin man with a head full of red hair did a low wolf whistle when she climbed up on the barstool.
Jacob strolled into the lounge decorated in crimson red, brass, and dark-colored wood. Winced at the lingering smell of brass polish. He made sure BJ didn’t see him by taking a seat at a dim lit table behind her, in case she’d already seen him at the bookstore or in the restaurant.
The bartender heard the three men snickering. Searched for the source. Surprise rounded his eyes. “Oi! Hiya,” said Barnaby Thomas with a British accent. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where’ve you been, love?” He stepped closer to her.
BJ groaned, quietly. “Hi, Barney. Nice to see you again, I suppose. So, how long have you been working here?”
“Too long. Blimey, I don’t think I’ve seen you since we worked together at the mall. I quit a couple of years after you did. Oh, and it’s Barnaby, by the way. Not Barney. It has been a long time, eh?” He saw the man sitting alone in the corner. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
Jacob ordered a draft beer.
Two out of the trio held up their empty glasses when the barman returned. Barnaby collected their glassware, and set them in the sink. Placed two highball glasses side by side on the bar. Filled each with ice, one jigger of whiskey, and a splash of cola. Stabbed each glass with a thin red stirrer straw. Brought a frosty draft beer mug to the man in the corner. Answered the phone that started ringing after he rang up the man’s beer order and deposited the change in the tip jar as instructed.
The man sitting between his companions called out to BJ. “Hello, you sweet little thing.” Pushing his long blond hair off his shoulders, he waggled his head to disperse the mane he was so proud of. Rolled up his long sleeves to show off tanned biceps.
“Are you speaking to me?” BJ asked, coldly.
“Well, duh. You’re the only sweet little thing in here.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the bar. His friends laughed.
She glared at the assholes. “I’m not a thing, and I don’t appreciate you saying so.”
“Oooh, she’s a hottie,” cracked one of the others, a thirty-something guy with thick black hair combed straight back and held in place with what appeared to be a whole can of hairspray. He and his friends wore two-piece suits, the jackets hanging off the backs of their barstools, open-collared dress shirts with a loose necktie, and shiny gold wristwatches.
And shiny gold wedding bands, she thought with disdain.
“You are so right,” said the man in the middle. He flattened a hand on his chest, bowed his head in shame. “I apologize. Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Mason.” He pointed to his companions with his thumbs. “My partners in crime, so to speak, are Bryon and Juan. We’re here on business from California. We sell exercise equipment. How about you, babe? You got a name?”
Mason sucked his drink through the straw. Like a toddler. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, “you won’t remember it in the morning.”
Bryon and Juan burst out laughing.
Barnaby hung up the phone. “Please accept my humble apology for making you wait, BJ. What do you want to drink? The first one’s on the house.”
Bryon the redhead spoke up. “I bet she’s a wine drinker, spelt w-h-i-n-e.”
“Nah, I say she’s the screwdriver type,” Juan chortled, elbowing Mason in the ribs.
Before Mason had a chance to add his own smartass comment, the bartender splashed two shots of tequila over little square ice cubes.
“Big deal,” mumbled Mason.
Bryon and Juan laughed at him.
Mason, coming out of the funk she’d put him in, joined in the laughter.
Barnaby placed her glass on a plain white cocktail napkin. “Don’t pay no mind to those fools, BJ. They’re just showing off.”
“I know how to deal with their kind, but thanks.”
“Hey, congrats on your novel. How cool is it that I know a published author?” Barnaby reached under the bar, brought up a copy of her book. “Will you autograph it for me? Y’know, I’ve thought about writing a novel. Someday, when I find the time. Maybe you can give me some insider tips and whatnot? Mention my name to your publisher over drinks?”
He placed a ballpoint pen on top of the book, shoved it forward.
She opened the book to find he had taped down the dust jacket flap with one end of an adhesive vinyl bandage.
“I don’t want the flap to flap,” he told her, sounding every bit as stupid as he looked at the moment. He didn’t seem to care he had hidden part of the synopsis.
She scrawled her name across the title page, the signature almost impossible to read. Had no incentive to add a personal message, even though it was possible he had attended her book signing before coming to work. She slammed the book shut. Winced. Put the pen on the bar.
“Ta,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She picked up her shoulder bag. Found the way to the restroom.
Jacob came forth with his empty mug. Glared at the trio whispering amongst themselves. The barmen fetched a glass out of the cooler and held it under the tap. Jacob paid for his beer, made it back to his table just before she came in.
BJ took her place at the bar.
“So, tell us,” Mason continued with his assholedness, “do you do it as good as you look?”
Juan broke in. “I doubt they call her BJ for nothing. Get it? BJ. Blow job.” He threw back his head and laughed too loud, drawing attention from other patrons seated at tables.
She stared at the men. All she had done was come into a bar to have a drink. To unwind. Same as any man was allowed to do. Also noticed none of the men in the room were manly enough to come to her rescue. She stuck her hand in her black bucket bag. Moving aside the book, a votive candle, and a few dried chicken bones she withdrew her wallet.
“Hmph. Screw her,” Mason mumbled.
“Not tonight, apparently,” Juan quipped.
Bryon grunted, finished his drink.
Barnaby approached the men. “Hey, guys, the women around here aren’t interested in being manhandled. Specially our BJ. You’re not going to get anywhere talking to her that way. Mind you, you’re not going to get anywhere with her, period. She’s married. She’s also the type that likes to keep herself to herself.”
BJ counted out enough cash to cover the drink and a tip, preferring not to feel obligated to the bartender. Departed through a side door.
Leaning over the trio, Barnaby deliberately blocked their view of her.
“So you know her personally, or are you just speaking in general? You two seemed pretty cozy,” said Mason.
Barnaby furrowed his brow as if thinking so what? “Yeah, I know her,” he said with care. Suddenly became aware he had serious bragging rights. He puffed out his chest. “Yep, we’re old friends. Good friends. She’s somewhat of a celebrity around here. She’s a published author. Not only that, she said she’s going to help me write a novel, and get it published, too.”
Jacob Wentzel shook his head in disbelief.
“No shit,” said Mason.
“No shit. I have her novel right here. It’s called Suite Sue.” Barnaby held up the hardcover book. “See, it’s autographed and everything. I think it’s a mystery. Or a thriller.” He examined the artwork on the jacket. “I’m not sure. I haven’t read it yet.”
Mason reached for the book. Barnaby lurched back, stowed it under the bar. “This one’s mine. You’ll have to get your own.”
Mason turned his attention to new arrivals to the lounge. A woman with yellowish bleached hair with black roots chose a seat at the bar. She smiled at him, revealing nicotine stained teeth. “Let’s get the hell out of here, guys. We can find a better place than this one.” He slid a credit card from his wallet. Settled their bar tab.
“Just as well,” said Barnaby, handing Mason the card and a receipt. “I had already cut you off. I think the lot of you have had enough to drink. Two of you, most definitely.”
Mason staggered to his feet. Dug his car keys out of his pocket, brushed aside Juan’s attempts to take them. “Leave me alone, damn you, I can drive.”
“He’s okay, Juan. C’mon, let’s go and find us some pretty women or naked dancers,” said Bryon, clutching the bar in an effort to remain upright.
“Perhaps it’d be better if your friend Juan drives,” Barnaby strongly suggested.
* * *
Two patrolmen waited near the wreckage of a black minivan. Paramedics dragged out the mangled dead bodies of three men in business attire.
Sitting a little ways back of the intersection where the minivan had run a red light, Jacob swallowed the chewed remains of two breath mints. He slid the gear shift to Drive. His eyes swept across the California license plate once more before he pulled away from the curb.