There’s no reason to kill time with Riley. Dinner was supposed to be between me and Mason, not us. She’s an add-on. She didn’t even participate in the business parts of the discussion — though to be fair, Mason never gave her a chance. She was almost as mute as Bridget. When he left, it was my job to be polite, finish up, and see his daughter home.
There’s nothing between me and Riley.
There can’t be anything between me and Riley.
I’m thinking this while we walk, listening to the click of her low heels, enjoying the feeling of Riley beside me, and the surety that other men seeing us together will think she’s mine.
Before we get to where we’re going, I’m thinking it’s objectively smarter for me to end the evening.
And yet something keeps me walking. Something keeps my lips closed. Something keeps whispering that this is all for fun, that I’d do the same if Mason had a son instead of a daughter — a lie I allow myself to believe.
We arrive at a set of big wooden doors. Riley walks a few steps past before realizing I’ve stopped. She turns around to look at me with genuine surprise. Her blue-green eyes follow my white-sleeved arm to its end, settling on the hand I’ve used to grasp the big brass door handle.
“We can’t go in there,” she says.
I knock.
There’s a click from inside, and the door opens.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Riley
IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT, BUT THE Overlook has been closed for the past few weekends for renovations. I read about it in the town paper, which Dad had left on the coffee table. The guy who runs the place, Danny, is a town renegade. He must have deep pockets because the loss of profits doesn’t seem to bother him, and the hall has always done things in unusual ways. That’s why the musicians love it. Because it’s not a typical concert hall and doesn’t obey the usual music scene standards. Which, for some, means they can get away with whatever they care to try.
The small bar and concert hall is on a corner, bright yellow, and kind of offensive-looking if you aren’t from Inferno Falls and didn’t grow up getting used to its garish appearance. There’s a tiny patio out front with a low fence separating it from the sidewalk, but during renovations the outside chairs seem to have been stacked in a pile to the door’s left. I haven’t been back long enough to have seen it this way as more than pictures in the paper, but reading the article, I got a distinct Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory vibe. Danny is eccentric and reclusive (when he’s not in club mode, at which point he becomes almost obnoxiously outgoing), and the place was an institution when I left for school. With the doors shuttered and nobody in the outside chairs, I imagined it feeling quiet but rebuilding inside. And here we are, at the big wooden door at the odd building’s corner, apparently holding a Golden Ticket and waiting for Oompa Loompas to show.
But the door isn’t opened by an Oompa Loompa. Instead, I find myself facing a middle-aged man not much taller than I am. He has a tiny mustache, distinctly unfashionable, and is wearing glasses that are even less so. The man has short, brushy brown-going-slightly-gray hair and is wearing a white tee.
“What do you want?” he asks, peeking through the crack. “The place is closed until next Friday.”
“Richard,” Brandon says.
The small man looks over, opening the door wide enough to see my companion. His face instantly changes. The door flies open, and the man rushes forward in a bustling, busy manner to clap Brandon’s back in welcome.
“Brandon! Where the hell have you been?” His manner is half-companionable and half-chiding. I suppose guys would call it “ball-busting,” like Brandon had neglected something by being away for too long.
“I was here last week.”
“Not when I was here.”
“I’ll be sure to check with your secretary next time.”
Richard, whoever he is, puts his hands on his hips and looks Brandon over. He glances at me again, but it’s a bit reserved, almost suspicious. To Brandon he says, “So, what’s up?”
“Anyone fiddling tonight?”
Very businesslike: “What, literally? No. No fiddles.”
“Not literally playing fiddles, Richard.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “I just meant playing a bit. Trying their sets.”
“Dimebag was trying some shit earlier.”
“But he’s done.”
“He’s done,” Richard agrees. There’s a moment where they both kind of nod to each other with unspoken understanding. I get the feeling of a tragedy barely avoided. Whatever “Dimebag” is, we definitely dodged a bullet by missing it.
“What about Chloe. Is Chloe around?”
“No. No Chloe. I haven’t seen her.” Again, I get distinct businesslike impression from Richard, as if this is all quite serious. From context, I gather that Chloe, Dimebag, and fiddling all refer to musical acts that may or may not be trying out material in rehearsal mode even while the club is closed — presumably in preparation for next Friday night — but I can’t tell where Richard falls in the grand scheme. He doesn’t look like a musician or even much of a fan. Danny owns the place on his own, so Richard isn’t a partner. He has the manner of a screener — someone placed at the door to intercept and evaluate all comings and goings.
“Who’s here then?”
“Gavin and Freddy.”
“Gavin’s here?”
“Gavin and Freddy,” Richard repeats.
“Can we come in?”
Richard looks at me. He starts high, goes low, then slowly moves his eyes high again. The once-over isn’t lecherous. I get the feeling I’m being scanned, as if for weapons or evil motives.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says and steps aside.
Richard closes the door and stays behind us. I glance back to see if he has a stool where he awaits visitors, but he walks away. We either got lucky that he was there to answer Brandon’s knock or Richard was surveilling somehow, even though I get the impression that surveilling isn’t his job, if he even has one.
“Richard Spencer,” Brandon explains, watching my gaze. “He wouldn’t have been here when you were here last, I guess.”
I decide not to comment on the fact that Brandon shouldn’t know when I was here last, or that I used to come here at all. It’s not hard to figure out, but it’s also not the kind of thing you don’t know if you’re not interested enough to look.
“No. I don’t know him.”
“Everyone thinks he’s an undercover cop or something.”
We’re walking a dim hallway between the door and the main part of the bar, toward the stage. When I look over, I can’t catch Brandon’s expression or get him to notice mine.
“How can he be undercover if everyone knows?”
“They don’t know. They think. It’s possible he’s just a nut. He seems to have shown up in town two or three years ago and immediately failed to be inconspicuous. I will say that if he is undercover law enforcement, he’s terrible at his job.”
“And he hangs out at a closed bar?”
“Danny gave him some token job because he thinks he’s interesting. Not the first time Danny’s hired someone based on a wild hair or a soft spot.”
Brandon slightly pauses around “soft spot” and I get the impression there’s a deeper story there, but I don’t ask. It’s strange to think that I’ve never met Brandon before last week, given that I used to see bands and hang out at the Overlook at the sub-twenty-one nights and shows. But maybe he didn’t have the beard back then. I look up, trying to imagine what he’d look like shaved. Those eyes make me wonder. His face seems like it should be soft, whereas the beard only adds an unnecessary edge and distance. It’s like he — not Richard Spencer — is the one trying to hide.