All of the dancers look hot in the purple and blue light. Any last bit of cognitive skill is drowned by the thudding music.
Lucky for me, the hum in my head returns me to task. I would wager the anchor with Syd's name on it in my chest helps, too.
I spot Mark at a table about the same time he sees me.
He stands to shake my hand and pat my shoulder. “Hey, glad you made it. Some of the guys are playing pool.”
I grit my teeth, trying to slink out of his hold without putting him off.
Focus. Need to find my in with this guy. I already know we have nothing in common, so I have to figure out a way to fake it.
“So, catch the game?”
Mark flags a cocktail waitress. “Hm, which one?”
Shit. I have no idea.
“Doesn't matter.” I pull up a bar stool. “It sucked, anyway.”
The cocktail waitress is wearing a bra and small, tight shorts that have ridden up so much they're practically just underwear.
“What can I get you guys?”
Her gaze lingers over me. She's actually pretty, in the sort of way she should be wearing something modest with a lot less makeup. I bet she made all A's in school. Got along well with her mother. How the hell do people wind up in these situations?
Says the killer genie.
I shrug. “Just a coke.”
She nods and turns to one of the other guys in the group.
Mark looks at me. “I thought you said you drink?”
“Oh, I do. Driving. Ya know.”
It's almost amazing how many things I lie about in any given day.
“One of the cab services will pick you up for free.” He reaches over to hit one of his buddies in the arm. “You remember that taxi?”
The guy—also decked out in pastels and a pair of sunglasses—shakes his head. “Nah, just ask the bartender. She has it.”
Somehow, these guys are less of a dick about taxi jab than I ever am. Thankfully, the waitress is already gone. I have a policy against drinking and killing.
The guy goes back to his conversation with another frat brother at the table. I don't even try to follow what they're talking about, but I bet one of them will discover Mark's corpse tomorrow.
The waitress delivers our drinks.
Mark takes a sip of his beer. “Where are you from?”
“San Diego,” I say, because it's the first city that comes to mind.
Apparently blowing up an anthropology lab left an impression in my brain.
“Great city. I just came back from spending a year in the Middle East.”
I halt, my glass mid-raise. That's the last place I would expect the frat boy to have been spending time. Not much slaying going on there, I would imagine.
I try to act casual. “You in the army?”
“Nah, studying.” He takes another gulp of his beer. “Good to be home. You think it can't get hotter than Phoenix, but it can.”
“Yeah, I don't see any point trading one desert for another.” I stare down at my drink.
I'm at a lost on how to steer this conversation. Should I talk about roofying girls, or the political situation in Afghanistan? Nothing I've gleaned about him so far makes sense. I don't know who to pretend to be.
Agitation creeps under my skin. The longer I have to spend on this wish, the greater the chance Syd slips away forever. I don't know when the numbness disappeared, but it didn't last long. I would like to have it back.
I just need to kill this guy. I can't exactly ask when his schedule has an opening for being murdered, but I can try to find out when he will be alone again.
I drink my rum-less coke and plot my next words. Time to get real.
“So, you have kids?”
He laughs. “Yes, kind of. That was my girlfriend's little girl. She takes classes as ASU during the day and works at a nearby pharmacy at night. The babysitter called out, so I was watching her. Plus, you know, make up for the time I was away.”
“Well, at least you can send that one home,” I say, acting like I know something about raising children.
Mark shrugs and drinks his beer before replying. “No big deal. The father is a vag-rocket.”
I smirk. Vag-rocket. Got to add that one to the repertoire.
“Kids need a dad, though,” he continues. “She's awesome. I taught her to death growl.”
“Put her on the Internet. She'll go viral.” I laugh despite myself, picturing that pale redheaded little kid imitating George Oosthoek.
This guy just gets stranger every time he opens his mouth.
“Yeah, don't think I want my three year old on the Internet.” He beckons over the waitress for another beer, then turns back to me. “You got kids?”
I shake my head. “Hell no.”
I try to laugh, but falter. There are so many things wrong with this situation. Mark isn't a bad guy. He's no more frat boy than Syd was ever in a rock band. Just like I pretended Counselor Robert was a pedophile, Phil was a wife abuser, and all the other stories all the way back. Stories that make my world keep spinning, because otherwise I would do nothing but stare at a wall between orders.
I don't want to take Mark from that kid.
I don't want to take anyone from anyone again.