Spiders in a Dark Web

by Emily Senecal

  I followed Deputy Tom, as I continued to think of him, to a group of about ten people bunched in and around one of the bigger booths. He found me a chair and I wedged myself between Tom and a woman a few years older than me, I guessed, with short curly hair and wide brown eyes.

  “Who’s this?” she asked in a friendly way.

  “Lola Bright. She’s staying at Joe’s place—she owns Joe’s place, actually,” Tom answered for me. “This is Stacy Markowitz, the beating heart of our team.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Stacy smiled and held out her hand.

  “We miss Joe around here,” she said. “I heard there was some problem with the ownership.”

  I explained the situation, and explained it a second and then a third time as more people in the group were introduced to me. About half of them had known Uncle Joe, which wasn’t too surprising, considering how small the community was. The ages and sexes were mixed, and I learned as the evening went on that this team had formed out of some of the more serious trivia devotees in the community, with their bitterest rivals (a similar-looking kind of group) sitting at the next booth over. A few other teams played throughout the bar, mostly couples who signed up just for fun.

  “We lost the last two trivia nights,” Deputy Tom informed me in a low voice. “We’ve all been studying to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Studying?” I asked, sipping my drink.

  “Latest news, celebrity gossip,” he said.

  “And of course things like obscure rivers, world capitals, years that albums were released,” added Stacy.

  “A lot of it is just luck,” Deputy Tom—just Tom, I reminded myself—said, with a rueful smile. “Our luck’s been out the last few rounds, but I feel a change in the air.”

  “Ever the optimist,” someone else said.

  Tom went to buy another round before the game started, though everyone on the team was sober enough to focus on the essential task at hand. When the trivia questions started appearing on the nearest TV and the game began in earnest, I still chose to observe rather than participate, though found that I couldn’t help getting caught up in the excitement of coming up with the right answer before the time ran out. I enjoyed watching the people on our team, as I thought of them, noticing the married couples, the father and two daughters, those on their own like Tom and Stacy.

  It was hard to imagine Tom being single and not on a date. Not because I was attracted to him (and even if I had been, I somehow, illogically, considered myself taken now), but because he was approachable, respectful and good-looking, not to mention gainfully employed. His type was rare on the dating sites I knew. Guys like him didn’t need dating apps in LA. There was a sprinkling of young, unattached women at the bar, but he didn’t seem interested in talking to any of them, not even after the game ended with a rousing victory by Tom’s team and some heady celebrating commenced.

  He’d stepped away from the table—to the bar, or the bathroom, or both—and I was chatting with Stacy about nothing in particular when she asked, “So, are you into Tom?”

  I looked at her for a few seconds, wondering what she was talking about.

  “Me?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “Oh, sorry, you’re probably involved with someone already. Or—I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  “It’s OK, I don’t mind. I’m not actually… involved… with anyone at the moment,” I said slowly, though it didn’t feel completely accurate.

  “You’re into guys, though?”

  “It would be guys, yeah,” I agreed.

  “Then why did my question throw you?” she inquired, smiling.

  I thought about it, and found myself answering honestly.

  “I haven’t been interested in anyone for a while,” I explained, mentally adding, at least, not until this afternoon. “Anyway, Tom’s way out of my league.”

  “Tom is?” she said, laughing and giving me a look—a “you’ve got to be kidding” look.

  “Isn’t he?” I wondered.

  “He doesn’t think so. I doubt many of the guys here would.”

  “Weird,” I said. “In LA I’d be considered way down in the minors.”

  “Oh, LA,” she dismissed with the supreme indifference that only a Northern Californian could show for one of the country’s biggest and brightest cities. “Everything is skewed there.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Still, it did make for an intriguing twist, and shed a different light on Tom’s behavior that evening.

  “Should I tell him I’m not interested?” I asked. “I don’t want to offend him, he’s been really nice.”

  “I don’t think you’ll need to. He won’t push if you aren’t into it. He’s more perceptive than you’d think.” She eyed me for a minute. “If you don’t mind me asking… How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two,” I said. I would be on my next birthday, which happened to be next week.

  “Why aren’t you interested in him, again?”

  It was my turn to laugh.

  “Bad taste, I guess. He’s just not my type.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is he yours?” I returned bluntly, thinking there couldn’t be more than seven or eight years between them, if that.

  “No. He’s cute, but I like them a little more mature,” she explained.

  Tom, returning with more drinks and pretzels, put an end to that conversation, and the evening went on. There was no reason for me to continue to feel so excited, to tremble with an electric buzz that had nothing to do with the vodka or the company. It just kept building. Now that I’d been clued into Tom’s interest, I could kind of see it. He gave me most of his attention, solicitous but not overbearing. He knew he had looks and charm, and was evidently prepared to use both to his advantage, but was also genuine and likeable.

  In my old life, someone like Tom showing attraction to someone like me would have caused me to react very differently. I'd have been flattered and immediately attracted in return. As I told Stacy, in my years of experience, I wasn’t likely to catch a Tom’s eye in that dating scene.

  Now, in this new reality, I seemed to see it from far away—almost as if the situation was happening to a friend or on a TV show. The detachment continued. I knew I wasn’t going to date Tom, and I think after an hour he knew it, too, though he continued to sit by and talk to me, as well as to Stacy, who I found myself liking a lot.

  Eventually I went to the bathroom myself and then bought a round for my new friends, ordering from the same laconic, weathered bartender who’d poured my first drink. While I waited, a guy sitting on the stool beside me turned around with a slightly slurred, “Hi, beaut’ful.”

  He was paunchy and puffy and plainly quite pleased with his line. It was the same with all the creeps on the apps—call a woman cute, beautiful, gorgeous, she’s supposed to melt like putty in your hand. I’d always found it utterly repellent and embarrassing, and this was no exception. Fortunately my newfound poise didn’t desert me.

  “Hey,” I said vaguely, paying for the drinks.

  “You new around here?” the guy leered.

  I noticed the bartender eyeing him with something close to the dislike I felt, which was reassuring. At least he wasn’t the most popular guy in the bar. I hoped he wasn’t the mayor or something.

  “Not really,” I said, and carefully picked up the full pints, leaving my cocktail for the moment.

  “What, you too good for lil’ conv-conversation?” Mr. Paunch asked angrily.

  It was inevitable: oily, exaggerated flattery quickly followed by bitter rancor when the target didn’t respond the way he wanted. Next he’d be calling me a cold bitch.

  “Not at all. I’m going to take these back to my friends,” I said, moving in the direction of the table.

  “Hey, bitch, I’m talking to you!” he bellowed, grabbing my arm above the elbow and splashing beer over both of us and a few bystanders, who shifted uneasily away.

  I thought crowd sentiment was on my side and w
as about to tell him to get his hands off me when someone loomed between us, a physical barrier between Mr. Paunch’s body and mine. The grip on my arm was immediately released.

  “Problem, Phil?” a smooth, authoritative voice asked from above my left shoulder.

  Down, Oss... Sorry about that… Thank you for understanding.

  A wave of utter, tingling joy went through my body, shaking me with its strength. I stared up at the side of his head—his head—barely registering as Phil slunk to a distant barstool muttering and new drinks were ordered on his tab. I felt numb. I felt more alive than I ever had. I couldn’t feel my face.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The bar wasn’t especially well lit, but it was bright enough to see the features that had been so indistinct in my memory this afternoon. He stood just two feet away as the alcohol on my arms dripped onto the floor, glaring after Phil.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He leaned over to catch a towel tossed by the bartender and turned toward me at last, only looking at me when he reached to take the glasses from my rigid hands. He stopped.

  So did my heart. It stuttered for a moment before racing at full speed. I stared up at him, he down at me.

  “You’re the woman from the beach,” he said slowly, forgetting to take the glasses.

  “With the bike,” I said helpfully, my voice unsteady.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  His eyes were brown—a deep, warm brown under arching brows. His features were handsome in a blunt way, faint laugh lines under his eyes. Cropped dark hair, wide shoulders, an average build. We took each other in. I drank him in.

  “How’s—how’s Oss?” I asked. “Is that his name?”

  “Osiris. He doesn’t live up to it.”

  We stared some more.

  “Pete,” the bartender called, and he turned his head—reluctantly, it seemed—in response. “Here’re those beers, and the lady’s vodka tonic.”

  Pete. He didn’t look like a Pete. Maybe a Peter.

  Peter.

  “Let me get those,” he said suddenly, waking up and grabbing the half-empty glasses out of my hands at last. Our fingers touched briefly. It felt as if he’d shocked me, my reaction was that powerful. The electricity raced through my body in another overpowering wave.

  He turned and put the two glasses down on the bar, turned back to hand me the clean bar towel. I mechanically wiped my wrists and fingers before giving it back to him.

  “I’m Peter,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Lola,” I said, putting mine into it.

  Time stopped. It really felt like it could have stopped. Eternity swirled around me in a strange, wild cloud of beauty and hope and ecstasy. Except it didn’t, of course. We shook hands and let go. I wondered again if I was going crazy.

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” he said.

  “I just got here a few days ago.”

  I have no idea how long we could have gone on like that if the bartender hadn’t reminded him again that the drinks were waiting. Peter picked up the pints in large, capable hands and gestured for me to take my cocktail.

  “I’ll carry these,” he said.

  I nodded and moved in the direction of the booth. As we approached, the group, who had been noisily talking, abruptly fell silent. I indicated that he put the drinks by Tom and Stacy, and he complied, not seeming to notice the dampening effect his presence had on the people around us.

  “Deputy,” he said politely.

  “Pete,” Tom said, less politely. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” Peter said without rancor, but also without any suggestion of apology. I saw Stacy glancing curiously between the two of us.

  “I haven’t seen you much lately,” Tom said, also looking from me to Peter and back.

  “There was a small incident at the bar. It’s been handled,” Peter said.

  “What happened?” Tom asked me.

  “Nothing very much,” I said evenly. “I spilled some beer on myself. Peter was just helping me out.”

  It gave me a ridiculous thrill to say his name out loud. I turned to him, not wanting him to leave, but not sure how I could walk away from my new friends—who patently didn’t want him to stay—without being unforgivably rude. I recognized their odd response to him, though I didn’t understand it. I met Peter’s straight gaze.

  “Really nice to meet you,” I said.

  “You, too, Lola,” he said. We shook hands for the second time—holding for a fraction longer than was necessary. “Hope to see you around.”

  I smiled and sat down, and he walked toward a door marked “Employees Only” at the back of the room and disappeared.

  Chapter 4

  I felt Tom’s accusing stare boring into me, but it was Stacy who spoke first.

  “You don’t know who that is, do you,” she said.

  “Peter?” I inquired, sipping my drink. “I guess not.”

  “He’s one of the people I warned you about,” Tom told me.

  It hadn’t really clicked until now, but of course it made sense. Peter was one of the not-so-respectable people who ran the Hideout. It didn’t seem to make any difference to how I felt, but then I didn’t know the full story. Maybe that would change things.

  I doubted it.

  “Is he?” I asked. “What’s the deal with that, anyway?”

  Tom scowled—looking more boyish than ever—and turned away from me to speak to someone across the table, ignoring the beer I’d bought for him. Stacy and I regarded his back for a long moment and exchanged a glance. She took a careful sip from her full IPA.

  “What’s the deal?” I repeated.

  She gave a shrug and leaned toward me.

  “Rumor has it that the owners—including your new friend Peter Owen—aren’t on the up and up. Tax fraud, dog fighting and drug dealing are the most common tales. If there’s more to it, local law enforcement isn’t confirming or denying—but they’ve made it clear that something’s going on.”

  “That’s it?” I said.

  She grinned.

  “You’re kind of weird, but I’m into it,” she said. “Personally I think it’s gotten blown out of proportion. It’s this small town thing. Everyone gets sort of myopic about anything that seems different, even though it’s not like there isn’t real crime and all that.” She yawned. “Anyway, everyone’s got it down on this place—though you’ll notice it hasn’t done business any harm. It helps to be the one of the few bars that isn’t a wedding venue and doesn’t water down the drinks.”

  The trivia team members started to break off or head home after that—I felt a little bad that my appearance with Peter might have ruined the party mood, but he did own the place. They shouldn’t really be surprised if he showed up now and then. I opted to leave when Stacy did, at about ten thirty. I wanted very badly to stay, and of course to see Peter again—it was all I could do not to run straight at the door he went through and find him—but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself any more than I already had.

  Beneath all the excited happiness, I felt a calm certainty that we’d see each other soon. I couldn’t tell you where any of this came from, it was just there. In my very cells, part of me at some mysterious atomic level. There wasn’t any question about it.

  He was mine.

  Tom thawed out some before I left, but I didn’t encourage him more than basic courtesy required. I could tell he was resigned to the fact that, at least for tonight, nothing was going to happen between us. It still surprised me that he was interested at all, but it didn’t really matter either way.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said with a cool copy of his friendly smile.

  “I’d like that. Thanks for including me tonight, it was really fun.”

  “I’m glad.” He hesitated, then added, “next week you could always join in.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  He considerately walked us to our cars, waiting as Stacy started hers an
d drove off and I got in and started mine. I lingered while he turned and walked inside, pretending like I was doing something with my purse. And then I switched the engine off, stepped back out and quickly circled the building, following a gravel path around to the left as if I knew where I was going; as if I’d walked it in broad daylight. My passage triggered a motion light under one of the eaves which lit my way until I reached the back, my feet making a soft scrunching noise with every step. A back entrance stood open, a dark figure was silhouetted against the light. I paused, and he spoke.

  “Looking for someone?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  We walked slowly toward each other and put out our hands. It seemed natural—and it was the most astonishing thing in the world. I could just see him, though his features were blurred in the soft glow from the open door. I could smell his scent, clean and masculine with a faint hint of beer, though that might have been me. We studied each other, his hands warm and unfamiliar and comforting on mine.

  “Where’d you come from, Lola?” he asked.

  “San Mateo, originally. Recently LA.”

  “Are you staying in town?”

  “No. I’m in a camper up the hill a little ways. It belonged to a friend of my father’s, Joe—”

  “Joe Brown,” he finished, sounding surprised. “You’re the blonde girl living in Joe’s camper. You own it, or you will when probate is settled.”

  “You heard about me.”

  “Sure, you’re big local news.” We were silent a moment. “What about me, did your friends say anything?” he asked.

  “Only that you and your partners might, or might not, be involved in something less than respectable.”

  “I see. And what did you think about that?”

  “I thought it sounded vague and speculative. Anyway I’m not totally respectable myself. I’m on the run, in a way.”