She was still waiting for her Nobel Peace Prize to show up in the mail.
The handful of men she’d tested herself with hadn’t been turned off by her strict instructions not to touch her during sex; they’d been turned on. There wasn’t anything too odd for these guys. They soaked up crazy like a sponge.
There had been a brief moment when she met Connor where she wondered if he was one of those men. The kind who seemed to get off on the experience of a girl who could either blow your mind or blow you away, depending on her mood. She hadn’t wondered for a second since. Connor didn’t look at her as if she were an exhibit at the zoo. A strange and exotic bird. No, he looked as if he wanted to climb into the exhibit with her, find out how to adapt.
Erin felt a sudden dose of yearning as she approached the entrance to Hanover’s Tavern. She wished she’d been strong enough to walk into the prison with Connor. Wished he stood beside her now, warm and steadfast. Instead she was getting ready to go another round of testing on her Crazy Pussy theory by walking into a bar and seeing what information she could glean through the prison workers she’d been told frequented the place. Being that Hanover’s was only four blocks from Cook County DOC and screamed dive with its neon beer signs and rickety awning, she knew the type who would be on the other side of the door. Greasy Gunthers aplenty.
She took a deep breath before opening the door, focusing on the smooth feel of the switchblade in her high-top. The matches in her pocket. If she concentrated on those comforting objects, maybe she could block the foreign guilt over walking into a room very likely full of other men. Men she would flirt with to get information. Connor’s head would explode. But she couldn’t sit around and be useless to the squad. If she didn’t have the steady job and Derek to vouch for her sanity, her stepfather would pounce. What Connor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Erin ignored the certainty that he would somehow know what she’d been up to and pushed open the door. Every head in the place turned in her direction before she’d taken two steps inside. Oh yeah, she’d come to the right place. Half of them were still in their uniforms, nightsticks and all. The other half had the tired, jaded look sported by most corrections officers. If anyone knew how Tucker May had escaped Cook County, these guys would. Secrets didn’t stay secrets over too many beers and a desire to stay away from their wives, lives, and responsibilities.
Lights, camera, crazy. She giggled and ducked her head, beelining for the bar. The bartender froze in the act of changing the channel on the ancient television over his head and looked her over with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. She hooked her foot in the rung of a stool and leaned over the bar, knowing every set of male eyes was trained on her ass. “Hey, mister.” A Southern twang, huh? Why not? “I got separated from my tour group. Would you let me use your phone? I left my purse on the bus. As far as tourists go, I’m hopeless.”
His mustache twitched. “You got ID?”
“No, sir, I don’t.” She bit her bottom lip and tilted her head. “Wouldn’t help much if I did. I’m not old enough to drink just yet. Two more years.”
Two low curses behind her. A few chairs scraped back, probably to get a better look. God, how predictable. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and give them the double middle finger, but she had a job to do. Phase one of which was to convince the bartender to let her stay. Obviously he was the type who ran when he saw her kind approaching.
Smart man.
He sighed and reached behind the cash register, closing his hands around a black cordless phone. “Make your call. You want a soda or something?”
She scrunched up her shoulders like she couldn’t believe she was getting a drink in such a fine establishment. “A Shirley Temple, maybe?” She tossed her hair and sent the four men behind her a conspiratorial look. “Something with a cherry.”
With that blatant innuendo, she thinned the herd by half, several men suddenly enthralled by their pints of beer. Weird. Usually more men folded under the pressure of a virgin, worried about the cling factor. Must be the tight jeans.
Time to up the ante. She dialed seven numbers on the phone, making sure the last button she hit was “clear.” No reason to traumatize some stranger who had the misfortune of answering this call. She reached into her pocket to pay the bartender for the Shirley Temple he’d just set down in front of her, but he waved her off, indicating a burly man who’d just sidled up to the bar a few seats down. Burly Dude winked to let her know he’d bought the drink. What a high roller. Erin smiled back at him, drumming her fingernails on the bar as she waited for her imaginary call to connect.