From here, I can keep an eye on the patio as well as the glass wall facing the Bushwick sidewalk.ĭownstairs, the ladies under my charge should be finished chit-chatting soon and I’ll get my boss’s wife back home to her kids. Waiting for the shit I know is about to go down, I stroll to a table where I can sit with my back to the bricks. The bartender nods and slides the glass over. “What can I get you?” Bryan, on duty tonight, steps to where I sit on a stool.
The owner, a red-headed woman in her early thirties sits at an empty table, staring into her computer tablet. The kid either doesn’t own a jacket or isn’t smart enough to come in out of the rain. Outside, the barback catches a smoke by the front door. Three of the regular patrons argue at the pool table as the cook comes upstairs to chat with the bartender. Maybe it’s the storm but I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight so amble back inside. Around the perimeter of the patio, purple and yellow mums bow to the downpour as ivy dances on the surrounding walls. Thunder rumbles, the wind picks up, and raindrops plunk on the clear roof. Those special fans who support me by leaving reviews My husband, my editor, my best friend, and lover No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's Hugs from me, Stella. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.Īll rights reserved.
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