Liquid Lies (7 page)

Griffin had been sent away on Dad’s errand, whatever it was. Knowing Griffin’s skill set, she could only imagine.

She played with the lime in her drink, watching it swirl around the clear liquid. If she wanted to, she could separate the water from the vodka. Make it jump out of the glass and do a little jig on the bar. Just that tiny bit of melted ice called her, begged her to touch it. If she were alone at her house, she might do just that—stick her finger into the chill and connect with what made her unique.

Remind herself of who and what she served.

“Guinness,” rumbled a deep voice at her right shoulder.

A half second later, she recognized it.

He pulled out the chair next to hers, wood scraping over tile. She turned slowly in her seat, allowing herself a full-on, toe-to-temple gape.
Him
.

She glanced at the door, waiting for David to burst in. Then she realized she’d never given Griffin or the Board a physical description of the Primary who had broken Yoshi’s leg. She hadn’t really needed to—he hadn’t witnessed anything to compromise Ofarian safety, and she’d spoken Japanese to Yoshi. And then the stranger had disappeared.

Only to reappear now.

He’d thrown a black, half-zip sweater over the gray T-shirt, but he still wore those faded jeans and scuffed boots. The sweater made a valiant attempt to soften his appearance, but in the end served only to add to his hard bulk while intensifying his eyes, currently the color of ocean shallows. Above the sweater’s neckline, the tease of tattoo curled just below his ear.

He threw her a small, unsure smile and gestured questioningly to the chair.

She should tell him to leave. He hadn’t been in danger before, but if David walked in here and questioned who he was, could she lie?
Would
she lie? How could she ever explain seeing the Primary again who’d saved her ass?

The Board would see through any story. At best, they’d recognize the Allure. At worst, they’d think he knew about the Ofarians, and then he’d be hunted.

Even with those possibilities hanging over her head, even with the way his presence practically consumed the bar, and even though she noticed several patrons toss him nervous glances and make mental notes to avoid him…he brought her an undeniable sense of calm. It was like the moment on the street when he’d pulled her against him. She’d been tense and jittery all day, and at last she finally exhaled.

“Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

Another glance at the door. No David.

The stranger settled on the edge of the chair and leaned his forearms on the bar.

Her heartbeat kicked up a few notches. “Did you follow me? Because I come here all the time and I’ve never seen you.”

He pursed his lips. “Maybe you just never noticed.”

“No. I’d remember
you
.”

He seemed pleased at that, inhaling long and slow through his nose, his mouth curved in a hint of a smile. “Coincidence is a funny, funny thing, isn’t it? I’m actually supposed to meet some people here in a bit.”

She laughed. “Yeah, right. People who live around the corner don’t even know about this place.”

He held up his hands. They were big. Devoid of rings, wedding or otherwise. “I swear. They told me to come here. Stick around if you want me to prove it to you.”

What kind of crazy was she to want to do just that?

Manny, the bartender and owner, came over and placed a pint of Guinness in front of the guy. Manny was short and lean, and even though he didn’t employ a bouncer, Gwen had seen him kick out an unruly customer or two. Before he wandered off to the end of the bar, he eyed the newcomer suspiciously.

Gwen turned to her companion, who was watching his pint settle in slow, smooth, black-and-cream waves. It made her think of the ocean creeping up on sand.

They looked up at the same time. Their eyes met. He cleared his throat and stretched out a thick arm to tug up his sleeve and glance at his watch. A Cartier Chronograph, a real beauty. A real expensive beauty. She blinked at the piece, thinking it might be a fake given the wear on his boots and the apparel she would have considered ordinary. Then there were the facts that he’d been wandering the San Francisco streets before daybreak, broke a guy’s leg without so much as a blink, and then eluded the cops with eerily good skill.

Yeah, the watch intrigued her, but it was safe to say it wasn’t the only thing. The Allure made no judgments, only identified targets.

He opened his wallet to pay for his beer and she noticed the state of Washington stamped on his license. “Just visiting, I see.”

Brow furrowed, he snapped the wallet shut. As sharp and fast as a clap, the dark look of the bruiser she’d met in the alley returned. Then, just as quickly, it disappeared.

“In town on business.” He shrugged and shifted his gaze to the yellowed painting hanging above the saw-toothed lines of the liquor bottles. One of the paintings had tilted to reveal the darker wall behind it.

He skimmed the scene in the bar at a measured pace, taking in the five other customers scattered toward the front, near the single window. It was too methodical to be leisurely—she’d seen Griffin and the others on his team do the same—though this guy put on a good act.

“Been thinking about you today.” His eyes meandered back to her. “How are you doing?”

Thinking about her? What did that mean? And what could she say? She couldn’t tell him about Yoshi’s death, or that the Board was continually shutting her out of decisions she was desperate to be involved in.

“Better,” she said. “Things are…better.”

“Better, huh?” His eyebrows were sandy brown, giving her a clue as to what his hair might look like, if he had any. Would it be curly? Thin?

“Thank you for helping me. Before. I don’t think I said that.”

He shrugged like she’d thanked him for passing the nuts. He leaned an elbow on the bar, his torso twisting toward her. “You speak Japanese.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” She shifted on her seat, resisting the urge to dive directly into her drink and mix with the vodka. “It’s for my job.”

“What do you do?”

“Sales.” Her standard line to Primaries.

“Sell a lot in Japan, I guess.” His pale eyes glinted.

She recognized a challenge when she saw it. What surprised her was that she was willing to meet it. “Sometimes.”

“Must be interesting work, doing business in alleys before sunrise. Looked like a decent presentation to me. Hope you get the sale.”

So this was how it was going to go down between them. Secrets hovered in the air, creating a twisted game.
Who will crack first and ask what the other was doing in the alley at sunrise? Who has more to hide and does the better job of covering it? How little can we actually say about ourselves and still talk?

Gwen liked games.

“So what brings you to town? Surely it’s not to play Superman to ladies in distress.” She heard the smile in her voice before she felt it on her face. Was this flirting?

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he seemed eager to take the bait. “Work.”

“And what do you do?”

Mr. Tattoo smiled so widely she thought the dimple might open a hole in his cheek. “I’m a freelancer.”

“Freelancing what?”

“Hey, you’re in ‘sales.’ I’m in freelance.”

She saluted him with her diluted drink. Point for him. “Fair enough.”

The mysterious freelancer lifted his pint glass to his lips, but watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know how I feel about you being here right now.” She spoke the truth.

“Yes, you do.” He smiled into his beer, carefully, skillfully, keeping his eyes off her. “You could’ve left when I sat down. You still could.”

Yes, she could have. And should have. They both knew that.

The Allure opened its jaws and devoured her whole.

Manny ambled over and pointed to her glass. “Want another?” Code for:
You okay with this guy?

She pushed her water-vodka away. “What he’s having.”

Manny shuffled off to pull another pint, and she tilted her head to take in the man who didn’t quite feel like a stranger anymore. She wouldn’t call him beautiful, not pretty like a celebrity. He was a
man
, gritty and real. He was a Primary, the thing her mom and dad had warned her about. He was the cookie jar on top of the fridge, and she was an immature child, waiting for her people to turn their backs so she could make a grab for it.

Mr. Tattoo turned slightly toward her. She loved the little rolls of skin where his neck met his scalp when he tipped back the glass to sip. It was a private spot that wouldn’t have been visible if he hadn’t shaved his head. She pretended he’d done it just for her.

Her phone, sitting idly by her elbow, jumped to life with a buzz and flash of light, blasting the wallpaper image of a painting by her favorite artist. Her first, panicked thought was that it would be David, questioning her status, wanting to know if she was ready to go.

A text message popped up:
So sorry about today. Home now. David says you’re good. Come to my place?
Griffin.

“Let me guess,” Mr. Tattoo said. “You have to go.”

She slid a sideways glance at him, and he was obviously trying not to look at her phone. Now was the time to exit. The perfect opportunity.

The thing was, she wanted to talk to her curious freelancer—and wasn’t that telling, that she was already thinking of him as hers?

She wanted to know, if only for an hour or so, that there was life outside the Ofarian world. She may love her people and its culture more than anything, but it was so very insular. All Ofarians knew it; it was why they were warned about the Allure and then turned a blind eye when one of their own tasted what they could not have. As long as it was not permanent. As long as the Primaries never, ever caught a glimpse of the man behind the curtain.

It might be shameful, but Gwen also wanted to know she was desirable to someone other than the man—no matter how wonderful he might be—the Board chose for her. Maybe a little flirtation in the Primary world might spark something in the Secondary. Maybe it might make her long for the same attention from Griffin.

But the truth was—as her eyes drifted over Mr. Tattoo’s strong hands and thick arms, and she recalled with a shiver how they’d felt around her—Griffin was far, far from her thoughts.

I’m sorry too,
she texted Griffin back. Then added:
Thanks, but no. Raincheck?

As she clicked off the phone and tossed it into her purse, her hands shook.

“No,” she told Mr. Tattoo. “I’m staying.”

SEVEN

The confirmation threw wide open some sort of invisible door
. He set his empty glass on the bar with a bang and swiveled on his chair to face her. He bounced a finger at her purse. “That painting on your phone screen. It’s Ed Ruscha, right?”

She blinked. Blinked again. He’d mispronounced the artist’s name, but she didn’t care. “You’ve heard of Ruscha?”

“Is that how you say it? I’ve only seen it in print.”

“But you know his work?”

“Shocking, huh? I think that painting’s in the Whitney, in New York.”

She tried very hard not to gape but didn’t succeed. When she could finally speak, her voice came out all breathy. “I didn’t know that. I’ve never been there.” The strangeness of that didn’t escape her; she’d been to some of the most far-flung cities in the world—Cairo and Helsinki and Seoul—but not New York City, practically in her own backyard.

“So you’ve been there? Seen it?”

“Yeah.” When he rubbed a finger across his stubbly chin, the scratching sound drew her in. It drowned out the low hum of the other patrons and the tinny music piped in from an unseen radio. “I remember it because it’s so strange. Odd but great, you know? The big words, the colors. One of those pieces that really strikes you, but you can’t quite figure out why—”

“Exactly.”

“Then I read about all the weird materials he uses as paint and I just stood there and stared, trying to see them.” He sat back. “Actually took away some of the magic for me.”

Her mouth went completely dry. She tried not to bounce on her seat. No one she knew loved art as much as she did. Hell, she couldn’t name a single Ofarian who knew a single
thing
about art. She didn’t care if Mr. Tattoo didn’t enjoy Ruscha as much as her. Talking about art was nearly an orgasmic experience.

“Really? But there’s so much to be said in his work, especially through his materials. It’s so simple, but he
makes
it more complicated.”

He considered that, frowning, round head bobbing from side to side. “Maybe. But if you’re talking late-twentieth-century artists, I think I like Cy Twombly better.”

An image suddenly came to her, of what might have happened earlier that morning if she’d actually invited Mr. Tattoo up to her place for coffee. He would’ve ambled around her apartment, mug in one hand, thick fingers of the other trailing over the spines of her bookshelves perfectly lined with art books. Griffin thought the books were a waste of entertainment center space, but Mr. Tattoo’s powerful torso would’ve tilted sideways to read each title. She loved that visual.

“I…I can’t believe you brought up Twombly.” Oh, God, she was stuttering.

“Why? Because I know him or like him?”

Somewhere in the midst of the conversation his hand had crept toward hers. Palm on the wood, he faced her, fully engaged. Something akin to wonder glistened in his eyes.

“Both.” Her voice turned thin as paper. “I think he’s brilliant. Something about the size of his canvases.”

He grinned wickedly. “You like ’em big?”

“Yeah. I guess I do.” Heat started in her chest and spread to her neck. “Where did you see Twombly’s stuff?”

He pursed his lips, thinking. “An exhibition at the Art Institute in Chicago.”

“Did you study art in college?” Maybe he was involved in the art world, and that’s what had brought him here.

There was the briefest of pauses before he said, “No. No college.” Then he ran a hand over his smooth head and mumbled, “Barely any high school.”