Kiss Me Goodnight (5 page)

If he was rehearsing, he wouldn’t really be spending time with me either. Perhaps I’d found a loophole. Damn. I hadn’t been hunting for one. I nodded and fled. I’m not good at ending conversations, especially those I’m not sure I should be having.

Had I just made a date with a married man?

Chapter Three

T
HE
D
OG
I’
D
B
EEN
C
AUGHT
having out without her leash isn’t mine. Sadie belongs to my stepfather, John. I have trouble talking about him for a lot of reasons, none of which has anything to do with him. I haven’t been the easiest stepdaughter, but he’s never lost patience with me.

I think I would die if he did. Of all the adults in my life, he’s the only one I can talk to without worrying about what I say. He knows I lie. He knows when I lie and usually why—even when I don’t—and he’s taught me to be pretty self-aware. John is a singular human being, and I owe the fact that I function as well as I do to him.

Enough of that, though.

In court, I lied instead of pleading guilty, which I should have done because I did take Sadie off her leash and let her roam free right in front of a sign that warned of the penalties for doing so. Had I seen law enforcement in the parking lot watching? Yes and no. I saw him, but I didn’t notice him. It’s really not the same thing.

I opened my mouth with every intention of pleading guilty. Earlier intentions aside, I had caused enough trouble for the time being. But then I said, “She was dying, your honor. She was dying, and she wanted one last run around the park. She couldn’t even run, really. She just shuffled along.”

Though she hadn’t wandered far that day, Sadie could run circles around me when she chose to.

Tears poured from my eyes. I put my hand over my heart. “She died that night, your honor. We went home, and she looked up at me with her sad eyes. She could hardly see me through her cataracts. Then she licked my hand, laid down on the floor next to her bed, and died.”

I broke down, barely whispering that last part. The bailiff caught me and put me in a chair. She clucked soothing sounds until my sobs subsided to hiccups. She must have been a dog person.

The judge stared at me like he’d seen one too many hysterical females. He wasn’t old. I pegged him at somewhere around thirty-five, which meant he saw me more as a piece of meat than a daughter. I prefer to play the daughter angle, but if I’d found him at all attractive, I might have flirted. I can flirt and cry. Fake emotion isn’t difficult. It’s the real stuff that bewilders me.

He paged through a few documents and cleared his throat. “Ms. Hallem, the license of the dog in question does not match your address, and it doesn’t have your name on it.”

Well, I didn’t have a dog. I probably should have just said so, but could I take the easy way out? Nope.

I straightened up. “She lives with my mother. My apartment doesn’t let us have dogs. So, the license is in her name, but Sadie was my baby. My mom is quite frail. She has a wheelchair, but she hates to use it, so she doesn’t get out often. I took Sadie to the park every day.” I swayed a little and slumped back in the chair. The stress of discussing my deceased companion was too much to bear.

Sadie is actually very much John’s baby. She’s also alive and kicking. She might be old, but she’s healthy and tenacious. So is my mother.

With an aggravated sigh, the judge dismissed my case and gave me a stern verbal warning. But when an authority figure buys into my bullshit, it just encourages me. That’s one reason I didn’t tell John and my mom about the ticket. John would’ve come with me and done all the talking. He would’ve known I’d feed the judge a lie, and he was quite good at making me tell the truth. I’m convinced he’s the real reason my mom didn’t throw me out by the time I was sixteen.

Lying is like washing my hands. Sometimes I just have to do it. I wouldn’t call it a compulsion, though, because it actually soothes me. Truly, it does. And anyway, people with compulsions can’t help themselves. I can. Or maybe it’s the other way around? In any event, I don’t take medication for it, so it’s not that big of a deal.

After court, I meant to go home, but I found myself walking past the parking garage and in the direction of The Majestic. I’d been to the club before. It wasn’t historic, and I didn’t see anything majestic about the faux-wood paneling on it that some enterprising person had painted teal. And not a startling shade of teal like Dylan’s eyes. The hue had been dulled and weathered by time, and now it hovered somewhere between trendy and dive.

The front door was open, so I went inside. In the brightness of the daylight and with all the interior lights turned on, it looked a lot different than I remembered. The lobby—where brief, friendly body searches happened—needed to be scrubbed down, but it was neat and tidy, and someone had recently vacuumed.

I opened the next door and stepped into the main room. It was a large area with a smallish stage suitable for local acts. It featured a dance floor and several long bars. Small, round tables scattered along the periphery. If The Majestic had other rooms, I wasn’t aware of them. But they had to, didn’t they? A business needed an office, and a stage meant storage and at least one dressing room somewhere.

Glancing around, I identified the likely doors and fire exits. I’m not the kind of liar who causes problems by shouting “fire” when there isn’t one, but I do like to know how to leave a space. And I know I’ll need to use the restroom. I haven’t washed my hands since before appearing in front of the judge.

The room was deserted, but there was equipment set up on stage. After a minute, I saw someone—not Dylan—cross the stage and bend down to check something on the back of an amp. He exited without seeming to notice me.

Then a man came through the front door. He was older than me, and I pegged him in the mid-fifties range. He was attractive in a weird George Hamilton sort of way, so I figured he was married. He smiled and set his case on the table to my left. Then he extended his hand. “I’m Craig, the rep from Hanover. Before we get down to business, can I use your restroom?”

Placing my hand in his, I gave him a friendly smile. His grip was heavy, so hard it squished my metacarpals together uncomfortably. That kind of handshake didn’t communicate confidence and strength. It only showed that Craig was an asshole. He couldn’t be unaware that he was hurting my hand. Did he think I would buy his shtick better if I was afraid of having to shake hands with him again? Or did he think he’d established control of the situation?

I’ve heard from a variety of sources that we judge a man by the quality of his handshake. If that’s so, I detected no quality in this man.

I infused my voice with frost. “Of course. Let me know if we’re out of hand soap in there.” I pointed a helpful finger in the direction of the restrooms. “It’s flu season.”

It wasn’t flu season, but I figured he was too stupid to know that. I read a lot of articles online, including a study citing the number of people who lie about washing their hands: ninety-one percent say they did it, but less than twenty-five percent actually do. Thinking about that made me want to go wash
my
hands. Who knew where his had been?

He tossed a leather binder on the table and hurried off in the direction I’d indicated. I watched him go for a second, but curiosity was killing me. I had to know what was in the folder.

You might call me nosy, but I prefer curious or inquisitive. They’re better synonyms.

The top document was a spreadsheet showing the volume prices of various liquors. The next document showed the same information, only the prices were cheaper. The third spreadsheet showed an even better deal. So Craig was here to sell booze to the bar. I scanned the numbers, automatically committing many of them to memory. The markup on liquor was
that
amazing.

Another man came in the front door. His bald head gleamed under the lights, and I estimated him at about five-eight and two hundred pounds. I bet he ate a lot of the fried foods available on the menus that perched in holders on The Majestic’s tables. He saw me and sighed. The reaction was brief, and he hid it quickly behind a professional smile, but I caught it.

“You’re from Hanover?” he asked.

The smile on his face fascinated me. I could tell he had experience dealing with people who wanted something from him—admission to his club, a free drink, access to his stage.

I wanted nothing from him, but his impatience was a challenge to me, and the fact that my hand still throbbed from Craig’s crushing grip didn’t deter me either. I extended my hand and gave him my most brilliant smile. I didn’t have to dig deep because the situation gave me honest joy. “Lacey Hallem.”

His polite façade slipped for a minute. I like to think my bubbling enthusiasm cracked his veneer. He shook my hand. Where Craig had an overly harsh grip, this man, who probably managed The Majestic, had a loose, limp thing going on. Both were off-putting, but this one didn’t hurt.

“Ms. Hallem, I’m a busy man. You have five minutes.”

I cupped his hand between mine, compounding my friendly approach, and stepped closer. Not creepy close, flirty close. I’d dressed for court in a skirt and blouse. I looked demure and cute, yet confident and competent. Lying and manipulation are all about appearances. Any spy can tell you that.

What’s the difference between a liar and a spy? That’s worth pondering. If I ever meet a spy, we can compare notes.

“Sir, I noticed you don’t have your liquor displayed correctly.”

He narrowed his eyes. It would help if I knew his name. Saying it out loud once or twice—but not too often, as that’s creepy—goes a long way toward solidifying a lie.

“And you’re an expert in that too?”

I’ve seen my fair share of
Bar Rescue
episodes. I inclined my head toward the central bar. “Do you mind?”

He motioned toward the opening. “It’s your five minutes.”

I surveyed the setup and mentally compared it with what I’d seen on television. “First, you need to display your goods. Customers want to be able to see the liquor. You want your most expensive ones on the top tier. It’s subliminal. Short men and those with self-esteem issues will gravitate toward them, if only to make the bartender pull them down to their level.”

He had shelving, but he had other supplies on it. Bottles of liquor were lined up on the counter. The napkins, stir sticks, and umbrellas should go elsewhere. I rearranged a few things.

“We used to have it like that, but some of the female bartenders complained they couldn’t reach it.” He came around the counter and surveyed my handiwork. Then he pitched in and helped me move things around.

I let him do the majority of the work; otherwise he would’ve realized I had no freaking idea what I was doing. “Invest in a few stepstools, sir. They won’t complain once they start making more in tips.”

“I need to get more business in here. Last year or so hasn’t been great for us.”

Guitar sounds twanged over the speakers, and I glanced at the stage. Dylan stood near one of the amplifiers, tuning his strings. Guys in bands are hot. No matter what instruments they play, they generally have strong hands. If they’re used in the right ways, I’m a huge fan of strong hands.

“I get mostly local bands playing here. Sometimes I get a smaller tour through.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Are they any good?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Sir—”

He cut me off. “Call me Mike. That ‘sir’ stuff makes me feel old.”

I lowered my eyes and tried to blush. I might not have been successful, but sometimes the right posture is all you need. “Sorry. I meant it respectfully.” And I hadn’t known his name.

He touched my wrist gently. It wasn’t a flirtatious gesture, just one that let me know he liked me. “I know, Ms. Hallem.”

Looking up, I gave him another brilliant smile. It’s a good one. Both my mom and John agree that it’s one of my best—and worst—assets. “Mike, when I hear a crappy band, I leave a bar. I can see that you envision The Majestic as a place that promotes great local bands and excellent drinks. Hanover can help with that. They offer a variety of liquors, and they also can provide staff training on how to upsell the beverages.”

Mike scratched his chin and regarded me thoughtfully. Then he went back to rearranging his bar. “I like you, Ms. Hallem,” he concluded after a while.

“Lacey, please.”

“Lacey, then. I think Hanover finally got it right, sending you over. Talk to me about prices.”

Over the next few minutes, Mike and I proceeded to talk about several things other than liquor. I won’t put them down here because I didn’t want to hear about how his divorce drained his finances and his son couldn’t figure out what college to attend, so I’m sure you don’t either. Believe me when I say I did my best to come across as sympathetic, and I think I was successful. I also did work cost information into the conversation.

A man cleared his throat behind us. Loudly. He had to in order to be heard over the guitars and drums doing their sound check. Dylan’s voice came over the speakers. I couldn’t tell if he could sing from the way he said, “Check, check.”