She lowered her voice, although they were alone in the room.
“We need this, Harper. This story could keep Charlton off our backs.”
* * *
When her shift ended at midnight, Harper was too wired to think about going home, sitting on that little porch, watching the driveway for monsters.
She could have gone to Rosie’s with DJ, but she didn’t want to deal with the TV news crowd. In the end, it always turned into a competition—everyone acting tough, comparing war stories.
She wanted to talk to someone who really knew her.
She drove across the historic district, tires thumping on cobblestones as she made her way around the city’s picturesque garden squares, with their statues of stalwart generals. The elegant old buildings were beautiful in the pale amber glow of the streetlights, but she kept her eyes on the rearview mirror. Every time she turned a corner, she waited to see if anyone would appear behind her. But the streets were still.
Only when she was certain no one was following her did she turn down a short, scrubby lane not far from the Savannah College of Art and Design.
There were only two businesses on this street—a clothing shop popular with art students, and the Library Bar.
She pulled into an empty space at the end of the street, well away from the lights.
Before getting out, she checked her face hurriedly in the mirror, smoothing her tousled auburn hair and rubbing smeared mascara from the corner of her eye. When she was presentable, she climbed out.
She could hear music thumping as she approached the bar. The air held a faint, sweet hint of marijuana smoke. Harper smiled. To her, the scene was as familiar and comforting as home cooking.
For months now, she’d been carefully avoiding her old routine. She rarely went to Pangaea, her favorite coffee shop. And she only came to the bar now and then, when she was feeling lonely.
Junior, the bar’s hulking bouncer, grinned when she walked up, revealing a jeweler’s array of silver and gold teeth.
“Harper McClain. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Right back at you.”
Perched on a tall stool just inside the front door, he tilted his large head as he contemplated her. “Where’ve you been? You hiding?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“Bonnie said you might have some trouble.” A calculating look entered his usually warm brown eyes. That look told her Junior had seen his own trouble. “Well, you won’t have any problems in the Library. If you need anyone taken care of I know people who can do it. You got me?” He held up a fist the size of a brick for her to bump. “No one messes with my people.”
She was touched. It wasn’t every day someone threatened to have her enemies killed.
Inside, the place was packed. The sickly sweet smell of spilled beer hung in the humid air.
She’d forgotten today was Thursday. Ever since the bar’s owner had instituted a two-for-one drinks night, Thursdays had done massive business. Three bartenders were on hand to deal with the young and very drunk crowd. Andi was newest: she had glossy, raven-black hair and wore a swoosh of eyeliner above fake lashes as long as butterfly wings. Tony (buffed, with dimples that earned him huge tips) had been working the late shift for nearly six weeks now. He was the strong, should-be-silent type.
The shift manager was Bonnie Larson. She wore a miniskirt and cowboy boots, topped by a black T-shirt that read THE LIBRARY BAR: LAST OF THE MOJITOS. Her long, white-blond hair was streaked with hot pink and pulled up into a high ponytail that swirled behind her as she swung four Bud Lights onto the counter and popped the tops.
“Here you go, kittens,” she shouted above the music as she slid them across. “These are so cheap they’re practically free.”
Harper stood at the back of the crowd, waiting her turn.
When she reached the counter, Bonnie had her head down, wiping spilled tequila from the bar.
“What can I get you?” she asked, without looking up.
“Margarita on the rocks,” Harper said, raising her voice to be heard above the music. “Don’t go crazy with the salt.”
Bonnie’s head shot up, a grin spreading across her face. “Harper!” Ignoring the other customers, she hopped up onto the bar to give her a hug. “What are you doing here?”
Harper breathed in Bonnie’s comforting scent of cool, lemony cologne and the turpentine she used to remove oil paints from her hands.
An artist in reality, Bonnie supported herself tending bar and teaching part-time at SCAD. The two had been friends since they were six years old. Bonnie was the closest thing to family Harper had these days.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Harper said, as Bonnie released her and dropped down behind the bar. “I just needed to see a friendly face.”
“I’m as friendly as they get,” Bonnie assured her, dropping back behind the bar. She turned to a man in his twenties who was slumped on a barstool, watching the two of them with drunken fascination.
“Get up, Neil.” She snapped her fingers. “Give the lady your seat.”
Startled, he hopped up so quickly he nearly fell over. “I … yes.” He looked confused about the order and his own actions but shuffled back obediently as Harper took the pilfered barstool, still warm from his backside.
For a second, he stood there wavering. But then, giving the two of them an awkward bow, he retreated unsteadily.
“You’re mean,” Harper chided.
Bonnie waved that away. “He’s been sitting there for an hour, drunk as a coot and staring at me like a sick calf.” Standing on her toes, she turned toward the door and yelled, “JUNIOR!”
Across the room, he stood and gave her an inquiring look.
Bonnie pointed at the retreating figure. “Grab Neil and send him home. He’s wasted.”
Snapping a salute, the hulking bouncer stalked off across the bar in search of his prey.
“You really want a margarita?” Bonnie asked Harper, holding up the cocktail shaker. “Be aware: If I make you more than one of these I have to steal your keys.”
“Just one,” Harper told her. “I can drive on one.”
Bonnie narrowed her eyes. “I’ll make it weak.” She reached for the lime-juice bottle beneath the bar. “But tasty.”
Harper turned to check on Neil. Junior had found him. He rested a thick arm across the young man’s shoulders and spoke to him amiably. Neil seemed resigned to his fate. The two of them ambled to the door.
Bonnie placed a full cocktail glass on a napkin. “I’ve got to deal with all this,” she said, gesturing at the crowd pressing in around Harper. “But don’t you dare leave. We need to talk.”
Before turning away, she reached across the bar and grabbed Harper’s cheeks with cool fingers. “Damn, girl. I’ve missed your face.”
While she hurried to work, Harper settled in to people-watch, sipping the tart drink, the tequila making her tongue curl.
The crowd was the usual mix of mostly young, mostly beautiful grad students and other local twentysomethings. Many, like Bonnie, had brightly dyed hair. The women all seemed to have long, glossy manes. The men favored ironic T-shirts. Aside from the bartenders and Junior, Harper didn’t know anyone. Cops wouldn’t be caught dead in this bar. The other reporters didn’t know it existed. And that was the whole attraction. Here, she could relax.