Darkheart

The Present: Law & Order

Shooter's was more depressing than Biggie's, if that were possible. The fact that no resorters ventured there despite its walking distance from Biggie's indicated that it wasn't part of the town's charm, but Shooter's probably knew that and reveled in the fact. What real sort of bar catered to seasonal vacationers looking for some misconceived delightful local flavor? Shooter's knew that the "local flavor" was anything but delightful--in fact, it was downright unsavory--and no self-respecting establishment would checker its floors and string-light its walls just to rake in some summertime cash. No, Shooter's had none of the framed photos of friendly and famous patrons, no darts and shuffleboard and pinball machines, no cute condiment baskets with shiny mustard and ketchup bottles and stylized salt and pepper shakers, and certainly no friendly bartenders. Definitely no friendly bartenders.

If ever there were a hole-in-the-wall, Shooter's was it. The bar tunneled back into a narrow brick building, a leftover wormhole, so the grime of the tables, the floor, the bar was as expected as it was necessary to the life of the place. The lighting was terrible, the single-use bathrooms behind their slatted doors were precarious, the pool tables were in desperate need of refinishing, the ashtrays were never emptied, and the smell was a heady mixture of stale beer and cigarettes. In fact, the entire place felt yellow, a combination of the smoke and fluids that pervaded it.

Heather twisted apart the edge of a damp coaster as she sat waiting. She was considering ordering a drink. On the one hand, her stomach was still unsettled from the previous night's bottle-and-a-half of wine. On the other, she was fairly certain she'd need a little help getting through the impending conversation. The thought of talking to him again, after whatever their interactions had been or meant . . . she'd not been sure she'd see him again, whether she'd want to. And she didn't think she did want to, but she had no willpower around him; she'd always struggled to say no to him, and she didn't even understand why. It would've been so easy to ignore his message, to let it hang there, make him wonder whether she'd ever seen it at all, but the compulsion to respond caught her, the morbid curiosity of what he'd have to say, what might occur, if she did see him.

Her phone buzzed. Heather fumbled with the device as she picked it up from the bar, swiped through it to the new text: Where are you?

It was from Kevin. Relief settled in. She'd thought maybe he'd stood her up, was canceling.

Kevin could wait.

"Hey," Heather turned to the bartender, an older tattooed man with a scraggly beard long enough to tuck into his belt should he wish to do so. The man looked at her expectantly. "I think I will order something. A--a bourbon and coke. Diet coke. Thank you." She smiled brightly, but the man hardly noticed and instead grunted something and went about his business of complying with her request.

In a place like Shooter's, her looks didn't mean much. And Heather did look good; she knew that. She knew her beauty had hardly faded in the time since she'd left Port Killdeer. Her skin wasn't quite as glowing as it'd used to be, her hair was an easy crop rather than long and natural, and she had a weariness about her that she felt enough to know others must also see it. In spite of those minor adjustments, though, she'd maintained her lithe figure, and there was now an added air of sensualism about her that her younger self would've never been able to pull off. Heather had never suffered for lack of male attention when she'd been out and about before meeting her husband, and even after they'd been married, she'd caught the eye of a number of other men, but she'd never acted on any of their flirtations, never been unfaithful--not until Kevin, anyway, and he hadn't exactly been interested in her. In fact, she didn't even know why she'd done what she'd done with him. It was a mess, and now here she was adding another layer of complication . . .