my chest, my waist, the parts not hidden behind the bar. The corners of his mouth lift in amusement. “Regretting some decisions?”
“Ha. That’s funny. Compared to Lincoln, all you are is a punk on the playground trying to be something he’s not.”
Bastard laughs again. He shouldn’t be laughing. That beer he’s drinking, it’s a mix of three half-empty beers from table six. I poured them into a glass, hit a spoon to the glass so it foamed up and served that shit up.
“Why is that funny to you? It’s an insult.”
Mal makes her way over to us. “Everything okay?”
Devereux’s chest rises rapidly—a muscle ticking in his jaw. He ignores Mal completely. Taking his glass in his hand, he downs the remainder of his drink. “Like I said, irony. You think I’m walking around trying to be someone I’m not, well, then, you need to take a minute and ask yourself how well you know your boyfriend. Do you know anything about Lincoln? And I’m not talking about his dick, because I’m pretty sure a slut like you knows that already.”
I gasp. I’ve never been referred to as a slut. I’ve slept with two guys. Okay, three. How does that make me a slut? But then I think about what he’s saying to me. Or trying to.
“I’m talking about his life. You stand there acting like you’ve got him all figured out, well, I’ve got news for you.” Tossing money on the bar, he swings his legs around the edge of the stool and stands. Leaning in, he tells me, “That man you consider to be some kind of god or something, remember this, fishermen make deals with the devil, and your boy is no exception.” Turning, he walks out of the bar without a second glance in my direction.
I inhale a sharp breath at his words. For a moment, I want to yell after him, but I don’t. I want so bad to say something about Norah, and that I talked to her, but then again, I don’t want to say something if she hadn’t said anything to him yet. I had a relationship with her husband. I could at least keep my mouth shut about her having a baby.
Mal nudges me, lacing the top of a drink in her hand. “What was that about?”
“I… don’t know. He’s looking for a ring I don’t have.”
She groans, setting the drinks she made on a tray and handing them to Dylan. “What a dick.”
“Yeah, he is,” I mumble, winking at the couple now seated in front of me. “What’ll you have?”
They rattle off orders. A dry martini. Whiskey sour. I judge people by their drinks. I think it says a lot about their personality as to what their taste is for alcohol. Vodka drinkers are usually looking for the no-sugar, gluten-free, low-calorie option. They also enjoy avocado toast. Don’t believe me? Tend bar in Seattle for a night.
Craft beer drinkers? Snobs.
Wine? Social people. Usually they want to entertain and talk your ear off.
Martini and gin drinkers? Mysterious and can control the conversation to their liking fairly easily. I also believe you can’t trust these drink lovers.
Single malts? Sophisticated and appreciate the drink for its rarity.
Vodka cranberry? Usually, the housewife wanting to let loose or the occasional bachelorette party drink.
My point here?
Devereux’s go-to drink, aside from stale beer? Gin. You can’t trust those fuckers. For hours, my brain mulls over everything he said to me. Devereux’s a liar though. He could just be saying all this shit about Lincoln to throw me off.
Making deals with the devil? That’s the part of the conversation that really sticks with me. I know Lincoln isn’t the most forthcoming with his life, but what if that ring had something to do with him?
Sometime after the fourth quarter of the football game, the bar begins to clear out, the ones left are the diehard Seahawks fans refusing to accept they’re losing.
“I need some fresh air,” I tell the girls and make my way out back.
I grab my jacket, pushing open the heavy steel door that leads to the back parking lot. It’s cool outside, a light rain pelts my face, nervousness squeezing my lungs. In the distance, I can hear the buoy and the faint sounds of the waves crashing into the jetty. For fall, the weather here has been relatively calm, but it’s only a matter of time.
Breathing in the salty sea air, I think about what Devereux was talking about. Why, if that’s the reason, did