Where did her father die? Near the piano? Or over by high-top tables? Or right here, where I hover between the door and the bar?
This place sees its share of nosy tourists, so I’m not surprised no one spares me a glance. I scan the low-key crowd and zero in on the only other white guy. It’s too dark to make out details, but he appears to be close to my age with blond hair and a pale complexion. Matches the Google image I found of a young Willy Westbrook on my way to Ivory’s house. Can I be this lucky?
Adjusting the curled brim of my favorite fedora lower on my head, I stroll toward the bar and wave down the bartender. “Is that Willy’s son?”
She lifts her eyes to follow the direction of my nod, her white hair forming an ethereal glow around her dark complexion.
“Mm hmm.” She returns her attention to the drink she’s preparing. “That’s him, sugar.”
“Thanks.” Hooking my thumbs in my front pockets, I wander over to the half-circle booth and tower over his table.
A girl on each arm, he drags his gaze up my relaxed posture and locks on my face. “Do I know you?”
The shadowed corner of the booth obscures his expression, but his delayed movements and slurred speech are hard to miss. High or drunk, he’s probably too blitzed to remember me tomorrow.
“Are you Willy’s kid?”
“Yyyyup.” He reaches for his beer, sloshing it on the table. “What of it?”
I want to tell him the reason I’m here, that I am what happens when he hurts his sister. But if I mention Ivory, he might retaliate against her.
Keeping my face angled away from the dim light, I bend over the table and slam my fist into his nose.
The girls fly apart and shoot out of the booth as his head falls back and lolls on his shoulders. The whites of his eyes roll and disappear behind his lids as his body slides down in the seat.
The blood from his nostrils forms twin rivers over his lip and splatters on his shirt. His intoxication probably has more to do with the knock-out than my nonexistent boxing skills. I hoped to see him writhe in agony but take pleasure in knowing he’ll wake to the throbbing pain of a broken nose.
The crowd doesn’t seem to have any allegiance to Willy’s son, because no one makes a move to defend him as I stride toward the door. I know this is a rough neighborhood, but damn, they don’t even look my way when I slip out as inconspicuously as I entered.
A couple of minutes later, I find myself parked down the street from Ivory’s house with the engine off and my attention glued to her front door. She should’ve come home by now, but all is dark beyond the front and side windows. Where the fuck is she?
I consider leaving when an orange sportbike pulls up to her curb. The rider removes the helmet, revealing black hair and a dark complexion. Black or Latino? He’s too young to be dating Lisa Westbrook. He fucking better not be Ivory’s boyfriend.
I pitch forward against the steering wheel, craning my neck as he strolls to the porch and peers in the window. He doesn’t knock on the door and instead meanders into the narrow alley between the houses and disappears around back.
My nerves tighten. Is he a family friend? A cousin? A fucking burglar? I type the bike’s license plate number in my phone, and a moment later, he emerges from the alley, puffing on a cigarette. A leg goes over the bike, helmet on, engine roars, and he’s gone without a glance in my direction.
That was weird.
I should go. I have no business here.
Thirty minutes later, I’m still telling myself that.
With each hoodlum that walks by, with every car that cruises down the street, my impatience multiplies, twisting through me with spastic fits and starts. Eleven o’clock on a school night, and she’s out there somewhere doing God knows what. I want to tie her to her bed and belt her for being so reckless. Where the hell is her mother?
This isn’t my problem. I reach for the ignition just as my phone beeps with a text message.
Deb: We still on for tonight?
When I messaged her between meetings while staring at Ivory’s tight body, I was raring to go. But now?
Me: Another time
Deb: I’ve been such a bad girl today. Spank me!
My cock doesn’t even twitch.
Deb: I can pretend to be her again.
By her, she means Joanne. Only Joanne isn’t the her that’s fucking with my head.
Me: You sound needy. The opposite of sexy.
Deb: pouts
Me: Also not sexy
Deb: I’m sorry, sir.
Me: You can make it up to me by moving forward on that favor I requested.
Deb: The GM guy?
Beverly Rivard’s husband, Howard, owns a chain of GM dealerships. I hear his business practices are as sleazy as his wife’s, but I’ve yet to confirm if he cheats on her. If anyone can seduce him, Deb can.
Me: Yes. Use discretion and pay attention to lighting. His face needs to be clear on the video.
Deb: Yes, sir.
Deb: I can’t change your mind about tonight?
Me: Good night, Deb.
What am I doing? Why am I here? To make sure she arrives home safely?