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The bartender rubs a hand across his face. I read once that touching one’s face is a classic sign of guilt or nerves, and I note this carefully. My guess is he didn’t have a direct hand in takingher, but somehow helped the people who did or at least knows who they are.
Son of a bitch.
I glance at Cain, narrowing my eyes to tell him to stop looking like the Grim Reaper, then quickly glance at the bartender.
Cain leans forward on his big, beefy arms, his voice a low drawl. “I’d be very pleased if you could help us find her. Like she said, she’s my sister.”Implication: And I’ll be pissed if you don’t.
“Right.” The bartender’s words are barely above a whisper.
Cain flashes a disarming grin that somehow makes my nerves stand on edge. There’s something about that smile I don’t trust. There isn’t an ounce of humor in his body right now. “I’m not sure we’ve met before?”
He extends his large hand out. It’s then that I notice small tattoos along the inner side of one hand. I can’t see what they are yet, but there’s a lot of them.
“Name’s Cain Master.”
Now this time, there’s nothing left to the imagination. The bartender pales, and only after prompting from Cain, reaches out and gingerly takes his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”
Cain shrugs. “Eh, people like to embellish facts. I bet half of what you heard isn’t true.”
And the other half is.
The bartender doesn’t reply at first. Then he clears his throat, and when he speaks, it’s in a low whisper. “Meet me by the dumpster out back. We can’t talk here.”
Cain slowly picks up his drink and sips. I take inventory. There’s one more bartender near the dishwasher, unloading clean, steaming hot glasses and placing them on a rack. A few people glance our way, but most are drinking or dancing, and in one corner of the room, some people play pool. A waitress sidles past me with a tray of pizza that looks so good my mouth waters.
Damn, this place is teeming with people, from young adults to teens, and I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in way too long.
“Finish your drink,” Cain says in a low whisper. “Then follow me.”
The bartender wipes down the space in front of him, turns, and leaves. He walks down a hall that leads to a door, a brokenrestroomsign leading his way. The door shuts behind him.
A minute later, Cain gets up from his seat, tosses a few bills on the bar for the tab, then goes out the door the way the bartender went. I follow. Someone crosses in front of me, putting more distance between me and the guys.
Before I can reach them, an alarm goes off. White lights flash. The wail of a siren goes off and sprinklers water down on us.
“Everyone evacuate!” someone shouts, just as the smell of acrid smoke reaches me.
Utter chaos erupts.
You don’t realize how crowded a place is until you all try to evacuate at once. One minute ago, the place was relatively calm, save some voices and laughter. Now, it’s a zoo.
People shove past me. Some scream, and others have the rabid look of someone being chased. I might be small, but I won’t letmyself get trampled. Someone in front of me shoves me back. I throw my shoulder, knocking them down.
“Hey!” her boyfriend says, and the dumbass thinks he’s somehow entitled to hit me. I duck his hand, and in one quick movement, sweep his leg. With the crowd pushing on him, it’s the most effective way to make sure he stays down. His girlfriend screams. I take the opportunity to run.
I’m small, so it’s easy to dodge the melee of people around me. I wonder where Cain is, but I’m not too worried. Something tells me he can take care of himself.
I get to the exit when someone grabs me from behind. I feel strong fingers at the nape of my neck. On instinct, my hand flies up to block the touch just before I bend and strike at the torso behind the grasp.
I gasp when I see Cain doubled over, the people around us swarming past, oblivious to us. Shit! Sirens scream, coming closer.
“Fuck,” he pants, still doubled over. “It was a set-up. And Jesus, look before you fucking strike. Come with me.”
It’s then that I realize there’s blood dripping down his forehead and a gash on his upper left arm, and neither one of those were because of my self-defense moves.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Follow me.” He sidesteps people left and right, then ducks down behind a barrel. He tugs me down beside him. Fire trucks come down the street, their sirens piercing the air. Our hiding space is so small, I’m right up against him, my back against his thighs. I keep myself very, very still.
