Epiphany (Legacy of Payne)

by Christina Jean Michaels

  “Sorry.” I rolled my eyes to cover my mortification. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “It’s only soda,” I said with a shrug. It was the least I could do after ruining his jacket.

  “Thanks.”

  “Just holler if you need anything else.”

  He nodded. “Will do.”

  I stepped away from him, and several customers came in at once, including Christie and her boyfriend Judd. I kept one eye trained on her as I mixed a whiskey sour, and just as I anticipated, she hopped onto the barstool next to Aidan. Couldn’t say I blamed her, though she had guts to flirt with him in front of Judd.

  Six saved me the trouble of facing her. She greeted them with a tight smile and took their order. I watched Aidan’s expression closely. He didn’t appear interested in Christie. In fact, his gaze drifted, leaving no area of the bar untouched. The crowd was average for the Pour House—a mixture of college-aged kids, men chasing a clandestine liaison, and a couple of bums seeking refuge from the cold while loose change burned holes in their ratty pockets. He took the scene in without prejudice.

  And while he was busy watching everyone else, I was busy watching him.

  “I never thought I’d see the day.” Six appeared at my side, jerking me back to awareness.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got it bad.”

  Her scrutiny burned my face. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” I couldn’t “have it bad” for any man. Never again.

  Her eyebrows rose in perfect symmetry. “You’re not fooling me.” Her smirk really grated. Deep down I knew she was right.

  “He’s too old for me, Six.”

  “He’s not that old.” She glanced in his direction. “He couldn’t be older than thirty. Besides,” she said, grinning, “older men know what they’re doing in bed. Admit it, you’ve been drooling.”

  I shrugged, attempting a pathetic display of nonchalance. “Well, what can I say?” I should have switched my major to theatre instead of art; maybe I’d be a better liar. “I’m not brain-dead. The guy’s a looker.”

  Her grin widened. “Glad to hear it. You had me worried there for a while. You’re too hot to hide behind a nun’s get-up.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Good to know you’re normal like the rest of us.”

  Normal like the rest of us.

  She went off to help another customer, and her laughter lingered, as did her words. They repeated in my head like an annoying song I couldn’t silence. If I were normal like everyone else I wouldn’t have dreamed of Aidan before setting eyes on him. Some of the dreams had been erotic enough to serve as porn fodder. Something in my belly fluttered and caught fire.

  Get your mind outta the gutter.

  By the time last call rolled around, my mind had clawed its way to the gutter’s edge. I approached the trio. Christie held Aidan hostage with her slurred conversation, while Judd shot daggers at his girlfriend’s back. A strong whiff of alcohol hit me, and I wondered how much she’d had. Two shot glasses sat untouched in front of her. Judd wasn’t in uniform, so I assumed he was off duty. Shame, I thought, biting back a grin. It’d be fun to watch the sheriff’s son haul her out in a drunken stupor, uniform and all.

  “You heard right,” she told Aidan, grabbing his arm. “Wednesday is hump day.”

  Aidan raised an eyebrow, and he and Judd exchanged a glance. Seemed like a heavy glance to me.

  “Lucky for us, today’s Saturday,” I said, earning a glare from Christie.

  She ignored me and continued, “Thursday is so close to Friday, it’s criminal not to drink.” She snickered, as if she’d made the funniest joke since the creation of standup comedy. “’Course Friday is Friday. No need to explain that one—”

  “Do I want to know what you’re talking about?” I interrupted. Aidan’s gaze flickered to mine, and a smile teased his lips. God help me, the man had dimples. If anything was criminal, it was those dimples.

  “If you don’t drink on Saturday,” she started again, “you’ve got shit for brains. Everybody knows you drink on Saturday ‘cause everybody’s still drunk from Friday.” Christie paused long enough to down the shots. “As for Sunday, who the fuck wouldn’t want a drink? Just the thought of Monday is enough reason to grab a bottle.”

  “What about Tuesday?” I asked, figuring she could find a way to justify drinking every day of the year if she tried.

  “Cheap two-dollar Tuesday. Kind of like that shirt you’re wearing.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in my Walmart special.

  Judd grabbed her shoulder. “Knock it off, Christie. You’re drunk.”

  “Speaking of drinking,” I began, wishing I could hide in the back and take over dish duty, “last call.” I directed the words at Aidan.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  I stood dumbstruck for a moment, running all the replies to that loaded statement through my head.

  Christie arched a brow. “Hel-lo?” she said, waving her hand in front of my face. “Still sitting here.”

  I arched a brow right back at her. The idea of cutting her off was tempting.

  “Well don’t just stand there. Fill ‘em up.” She pushed the empty shot glasses in my direction but only succeeded in scattering them. One rolled down the bar and fell off, landing with a soft thud on the fatigue mat behind the counter.

  Gritting my teeth, I picked it up. Christie hadn't exactly been the frontrunner of the welcome committee. She blamed my mom for her parents’ divorce and therefore me by association. I got that. My patience, however, was running thin. “She okay for another round?” I asked Judd.

  He gave her a withering look. “Sure, if she wants to spend the rest of the night in the John.”

  “I’d rather lick a toilet seat than suck face with you!” She jumped up, and her raven hair obscured eyes glassy from too much alcohol. The barstool toppled in her haste to put some distance between herself and Judd.

  “Come on, babe,” he soothed as he reached for her.

  “Don’t touch me! Go away.”

  Aidan stepped back. “That’s my cue to leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I promise this doesn’t happen every night.” Just half of them.

  “Don’t worry about it. Have a good night,” he said before disappearing into the cold, and I wondered if he’d come back again.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” Six wiped her soapy hands on her apron. “I heard shouting. Luckily the place is empty, or you’d have lava erupting from Mike’s ears.” Good thing Mike, our bar manager, had gone home an hour ago.

  “We’re leaving,” Judd said. “Come on, babe. Let’s get you home. I’d say you’re a level past FUBARed.”

  Christie jerked from his grasp and stalked toward the exit on wobbly feet. I smothered a giggle but then felt guilty for it when she tripped over her platform heels.

  Judd sighed. “Next time, Christie, I’m getting wasted. I’m sick of getting puked on and passed out on.”

  Six and I shared a glance, and we both burst into laughter as soon as their bickering faded into the night. “What is that . . . the third time this week?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “That girl’s gotta slow down.”

  “She was telling Aidan why drinking every day of the week is a necessity. The poor girl’s got a problem.”

  “I’ll slip her a pamphlet the next time she’s here.”

  I rounded up the empties on the bar. “Like that’ll help.”

  “I can’t believe you guys are related.” Six wiped down the counter.

  “Me neither.”

  “Enough about her. Now dish. Already on a first name basis, are we?”

  I stared at her blankly.

  “Aidan?”

  “What else should I call him?” I shot back.

  “How about Mr. Dark-and-Mysterious?”

  Six had a way of being uncannily perceptive. “Suits him,” I mumbled. He remained in my thoughts as we walked home that night. Sleep wa
s an elusive commodity, but once I fell under its spell, I dreamed of him again. The same dream, and in the end I always found him in a puddle of blood.

  4. Precipice

  Aidan came in every night, taking “his” spot at the bar. His spot, because I couldn’t look at that barstool and not think of him. I dreamed about him, thought about him, and unleashed my crazy infatuation into my drawings, which really pissed me off. As if I hadn’t drawn and painted the likeness of him enough over the past few years. Now, like a victim of OCD, I couldn’t stop.

  The dreams took over my nights. If I didn’t dream about him, I dreamed of things too horrible to put into words. The media released the name of the victim a few days after she was found, and the smiling face of Chloe Sanders was enough to make me cry. I instantly recognized her as the woman I’d seen in my dreams.

  As Halloween arrived, speculation over Chloe’s murder had settled down some. Most customers I’d overheard talking about it assumed she’d ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently, she’d had a drug problem—more than one customer described her as a “wild child.”

  “Ooh! I like it!” Six said the instant I entered the Pour House. She was dressed to impress in an eighties style teenybopper outfit. Her eyes traveled up and down my body, assessing my old-fashioned sweater and knee-length skirt. “But . . . what exactly are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Bonnie.” She stared at me blankly, so I added, “Bonnie and Clyde? Or did the gun escape your notice?” I twirled the dollar store pistol in my hand. The maneuver worked for about three seconds until it slipped from my grasp and hit the floor with a clatter. “Guess the gun wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “I thought Bonnie was blond.”

  “She was. I guess I could’ve died my hair—”

  “Don’t you dare!” Six wrinkled her nose, and her mouth turned up in that playful grin I was starting to recognize. “So does this mean you’re gonna find yourself a Clyde tonight? Maybe Mr. Dark-and-Mysterious will fill the role.”

  “That’s doubtful. Besides, being single isn’t against the law. This chick is Clyde-free.”

  She pouted. “You’re no fun, Mac.”

  “Yeah, the last time we tried fun, I ended up ruining a perfectly good jacket.”

  “I bet the pecs under it were worth the trouble.” Six winked and then bounced off in the direction of the packed bar.

  Mike had lured in a huge crowd by advertising cheap drinks and no cover charge. People spilled through the front door in droves, clad in a variety of costumes: angels and demons, ugly masks resembling the monsters kids swore lived under their beds, celebrity likenesses, and pirates and . . . cowboys? I laughed at the group of guys sporting dreadlocks, eyepatches, and cowboy boots. What a combination.

  “That’ll be three dollars,” I said, setting a Coors Light in front of a guy wearing an Elmo costume. “Where’s Big Bird?”

  “I ate him for dinner.” His blue eyes smiled at me through the holes in the red fur.

  I couldn’t help but grin back. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thanks. Keep the change.” Our fingers brushed together as he handed me a five-dollar bill. I gave Elmo an amused smile and turned to the next customer, which happened to be Christie and two of her sidekicks. She leaned forward and shelved her breasts on the bar, and cleavage spilled from her Pocahontas costume.

  “We’ll take three Long Islands,” she shouted over the raucous beat of the band. The dance floor in front of the stage was full to capacity. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, eerie flameless candles lit the counter and the wooden tables, and black lights created an atmosphere ideal for the holiday of ghouls and goblins. The lead singer, belting out Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” wasn’t half bad. The guy could sing, I’d give him that, but he didn’t hold a candle to Michael’s dance moves.

  “Sure, be right back,” I hollered at Christie. I maneuvered around Tony—the third bartender working the shift—and fetched the order. When I returned a few minutes later, I saw that Aidan had arrived, and the vultures had swooped in to feast. I swear he had a sixth sense when it came to my presence. Our eyes collided, freezing me to the spot. I should have looked away. I should have done anything but stand there like an idiot drinking in the sight of him. His five o’clock shadow seemed out of place, and the cagey glint in his eyes more pronounced, but damn he wore disreputable well.

  As my pulse thrummed at my throat, I forced my feet to move and set the tray of drinks on the counter. “You opening a tab?” I asked Christie.

  “You bet.” She slipped me her plastic before rubbing against Aidan, drink in hand, as she slid by him. At least the hussy wasn’t sticking to the counter like chewed gum. She and her friends no doubt had bigger fish to catch. I spotted Judd in the crowd, clad in uniform. If he wasn’t on duty, he was as boring as calculus when it came to costume selection.

  The pirate-cowboys waved at me from the other end of the bar. “We’re dry over here, baby!” Tony had just approached Aidan, so I resigned myself to serving the men with the come-hither eyes.

  A half hour later, after three rounds of drinks and a dozen lurid jokes, I extracted myself and was certain four pairs of lascivious eyes were glued to my ass.

  Six grabbed my arm mid-stride and gestured toward Aidan. “Talk to him. It won’t kill you, I promise.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that—I’d been trying to talk to him all week, but he’d been tight-lipped. The band went to break, and I kissed my excuse to duck and hide goodbye. Six gave me a final nudge in his direction.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, gripping the counter for support. His eyes answered for him. Troubled and drawn, they indicated a sleepless night. Two full shot glasses sat between his hands; three empties had already been pushed aside.

  This couldn’t be a good sign.

  I said the first thing that came to mind. “No costume tonight?”

  “I’m not really in a festive mood.” His eyes traveled the length of my body, and the corner of his mouth crept up in a lopsided smile. “Nice hat,” he said, swaying in his seat, “but Bonnie was blond.”

  “I don’t play well with hair dye or wigs. It’s a character flaw.” What had gotten into me? Talking to the opposite sex had never come so easily, especially with a man as attractive as Aidan.

  Sexy. Gorgeous. Hmm . . . wonder what’s underneath those clothes?

  I swallowed hard. Now who had lascivious eyes? Time to pour cement into my mind’s gutter.

  “You’re right. I can’t picture you blond.” He swayed on the barstool again, and I figured he must have hit the bottle before arriving. “Where’s Clyde hiding?”

  “Bonnie’s an independent woman. She’s going solo.”

  “Maybe you’ll get into less trouble that way.” He downed the remaining two shots without warning. The last hit the counter with a racket. “Can you believe today is my birthday?” The scorn in his tone confused me. Most people didn’t get so bent over a birthday.

  I wasn’t sure how to reply. Somehow I guessed “happy birthday” wasn’t what he wanted to hear. I silently waited, hoping he’d shed some light. Even in my dreams—where I learned of things I had no way of explaining to others—he remained a mystery.

  “I’ll take another round,” he said, gesturing toward the empties. “Make them doubles.”

  I swallowed hard. “You sure? You’ve had a lot already.”

  He flashed that crooked smile again, and I wondered if he realized how disarming it was. “You’re worried about me?” he asked.

  I hesitated. “Yeah, I am.” Way more than I wanted to admit. Tonight was Halloween, after all.

  “Thanks for the concern, but I have a high tolerance for alcohol. Besides, turning thirty should make me a big boy now.”

  “You’re thirty?” Dang, Six was right on the money.

  “I know, over-the-hill to someone like you, right? I bet you’re barely twenty-one.” Melancholy tinged his tone. “Things were simpler back then.”


  “I’m twenty-three.” I leaned over the counter and locked my eyes on his. “And things are far from simple.” After a heated moment, I pulled away and began stacking the empties. “Just so you know, I’m good at climbing hills.”

  Where had that come from? I felt my cheeks grow warm, but a commotion a few feet down the bar saved me from further embarrassment.

  “Hey! You can’t smoke in here,” Six shouted.

  A cigarette lighter flicked to life, and so did the images stored in my memory. I dropped the shot glasses and held onto the bar. Something akin to burning flesh almost made me gag, and I saw Chloe Sanders’ terrified face so clearly that she could have been standing in front of me. I opened my eyes, only realizing then that I’d closed them. Judd escorted the smoker outside to the designated area, the guy grumbling about “Oregon’s stupid smoking laws” the whole way.

  Aidan watched me carefully. “You okay?”

  I blinked. “No, I mean yes. The lighter . . .” I shuddered at the recollection; her scream had seemed to go on forever as he’d burned her. “It uh, it reminded me of the woman who was murdered last week.” I bent to retrieve the shot glasses, and when I returned my attention to Aidan, he looked thunderstruck.

  “The lighter?” he asked.

  My throat tightened. “How about those shots?” I rushed away before he could reply. I didn’t know what information the authorities had made public—I hadn’t picked up a newspaper since they’d released her identity. I returned to Aidan, placed two fresh shots on the counter, and fervently prayed he’d forgotten my slip of tongue.

  He handed me a couple of bills. “Keep the change. Who knows? With enough tips maybe you won’t have to rob a bank.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know,” he began, gesturing toward my outfit, “though you look the part, I can’t see you going through with the whole armed robbery thing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I bit back a smile. Was he flirting with me? Or had I taken the meaning of dense to a new level?

  He held up a shot glass. “Here’s to crime sprees coming to an end.” Some unidentifiable emotion darkened his face. “I’d offer to share, but I doubt you’re allowed to drink on the job.” He picked up the remaining shot.