The pencil slipped from Josie’s grip, rolling and falling over the edge. As connected as she felt to the lead and wood, she did not watch it drop. Instead, she stared down into the face of something so familiar—heartache. She’d never seen such a beautiful, broken expression, and it took her breath away. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the soft tap, tap, tap of the pencil hitting the ground.
Josie felt bound to him in that moment. They were two souls snared by chance and circumstance. Though they did not feel like strangers.
She wanted more, but she didn’t know what. It tugged at her like the undeniable pull of the moon. She couldn’t name it, but she craved it like her drugs and her art.
A siren wailed from somewhere down the block and they both blinked, released from each other in a defeated kind of way. He turned away slowly. Josie leaned forward against the railing as he disappeared back into the dotted path of streetlamps.
When he was gone, she raced down the steps of her building and retrieved his abandoned hoodie from the alley. Josie wrapped herself in the black cotton and, for the first time in years, slept through the night. Almost every day since, she’d worn the oversize article, growing attached to it as if it were a long-lost friend.
“You need another drink?” the waitress asked. Josie made eye contact with the girl and nodded. “Another rum and Coke and no conversation. Coming right up, hon.”
She smirked when the waitress left to fetch her drink. Alone again, Josie began sketching a couple making out against the bar. The woman was standing, squeezed between the man’s thighs, while his hand gripped her waist. Their faces pressed together in heated kisses and whispered words. Their display garnered the attention of everyone in the place before the waitress tapped the bar and told them to take it elsewhere. Josie couldn’t care less. Her boy had arrived.
He took his place behind the bar after a smile and wave to the waitress. He looked good there, backlit by mirrors, lavender lights, and half-empty bottles. Gone was her tortured boy from the alley. This version was sexy and confident.
It was pure luck that she’d found him here, tending bar at this yuppie establishment. Josie had come in one night, looking for a release of any kind, when she’d spotted him. She recognized his tattoos, and when he turned, she remembered his flawless face as well, even after six months. The images had been burned into her memory on a cellular level. It hadn’t taken long to learn his schedule, and soon she saw him four nights a week. But he never saw her.
Josie wanted him. The one-night stands that left her feeling coveted but isolated were no longer satisfying. She wanted to taste his lips and trace the patterns on his skin. She wanted to live in his clothes and feel the weight of his body on hers. Their relationship was complicated, existing only through one-way glass and never shared. Josie liked it this way. She felt anchored to him but not possessed.
Tristan Fallbrook was complicated and just barely a man. At the ripe old age of twenty-two, he’d suffered heartache, seen his fair share of violence, and thrived as a professional criminal. His life could rival that of a drafted wartime soldier, including battle scars and haunting memories.
None of this was planned. His life should be different. Yet here he was, living in a new place, facing a new direction that still felt faulty. All of his knowledge, through personal experience and countless books, could not help him. Tristan was alone and trapped in the foreign city, with only a 9mm and an addiction to literature to save him. Night after night, he tucked away his one-hundred-thirty-seven-point IQ and stood behind the bar, wearing his inked armor and crooked smile.
Looks like Bundy is back,” Erin said, sliding her tray onto the bar. “Same as always, rum and Coke.”
“You got it,” Tristan answered. “Why do you guys call her that?”
“Because she’s really pretty and really weird, in a serial killer kind of way. She never comes in here with anyone. She never leaves with anyone. She just sits in that corner, sipping her drink and scribbling in her notebook. Sometimes she draws pictures on the napkins. I feel like she’s leaving them for me on purpose. Like it’s some kind of clue I’m supposed to decipher.”
Tristan placed the drink on the tray and shrugged.
“Maybe she’s just shy, Nancy Drew. Did you know Picasso and Warhol both had the habit of sketching on napkins?”
“So what are you saying? I should be saving them? She’ll be famous and I’ll be rich?”
“Maybe. What’s she drawing, anyway?”
“Usually faces of people in the bar. There’s a sketch of me on the wall in booth twelve. Some of her finest work, I’d say.” Tristan smiled, amused at Erin’s confidence. “Whatever she is, she definitely needs some wardrobe help. You should see the ratty old sweatshirt she wears all the time. My bet is serial killer. That pretty face could lure you chumps in, no problem.”
Reaching his quota for small talk, Tristan gave her a grin and sent her on her way. He rested against the shelf of smartly lined bottles and considered the behavior of Bundy. He didn’t see anything wrong with someone wanting to be alone with her poison and her thoughts. He wasn’t so sure what solidified her status as a freak. Many nights, Tristan had found himself half deep into a fifth of whiskey while venting frustrations to strangers. Vagrants, fellow employees, even customers had been subjected to drunken rants of pipe dreams. Some offered advice, some only listened. He soon learned that talking about it never mattered. His life’s course seemed to be fixed.
Tristan watched Erin deliver the drink. He forced himself to focus on Bundy, his curiosity piqued. She was shrouded in shadows and he could make out nothing but a faint silhouette. He recognized the intent of her posture and placement. Her hiding was intentional.
Josie did not look up as her new drink was dropped off, her mind preoccupied by the presence of him. The smell of the waitress’s flowery perfume brought forth an angry memory she quickly expelled. Then she wondered what he would smell like. His scent and her memory of it had faded from the hooded sweatshirt. Would he smell of heavy colognes and aftershaves or just a simple combination of soap and cigarettes? She scolded herself, knowing that her fascination with this man was unreasonable. She had no right to want him the way she did.
Josie knew the name the bar staff had branded her with, Bundy. She’d overheard two of the waitresses talking on their break. They hadn’t seen Josie there as they chatted about her weirdness and state of dress. She hadn’t been the subject of their conversation for long, though, easily dismissed as in every other aspect of her life. Her eagerness to simply be in his presence outweighed any humiliation she’d had to endure.
Suddenly, Josie felt a burning fire on her face, a pull from across the room. She glanced up to see his eyes on her. He was looking, really looking. Even though she knew he couldn’t see much, she felt as though she were being dissected in front of a crowd of spectators.
After weeks of her veiled presence, he’d finally taken notice. His muscled forearms leaned on the bar and his gaze stayed fixed. Sure, she wanted him, but on her terms. She wasn’t ready. He wasn’t another man to be conquered and forgotten. He was different. Josie felt smothered with the need to escape.
Spying no movement from her corner, Tristan finally dropped his eyes back to the bar, liberating his subject. He knew she was a creature of habit and wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. He would wait her out.
An hour passed, steady and unhurried, neither one of the players giving up on the waiting game. By midnight, Tristan couldn’t take it anymore and needed to step out for a smoke. He let his coworker know and headed out the side door. The alley welcomed him with quiet darkness.