It was raining again. The water didn't clean anything; it just made the street look greasy. Puddles gathered near the curb, reflecting the neon signs from the bar across the street in oily swirls of pink and blue. Inside The Velvet Lounge, the sound was muffled. It was just the constant thrum of rain hitting the glass and a saxophone player in the corner who was trying too hard to sound soulful.
Lena pulled at her dress. It was silk, or something like it, and it kept riding up her thighs every time she moved. She stood at the hostess stand, a heavy mahogany podium that felt safe to stand behind. It was solid. It separated her from the people coming in. Sometimes that felt like the only thing keeping her together.
The place was old and smelled like it. The walls were covered in this thick red fabric that gave the lounge its name. If you got too close, you could smell the decades of dust trapped in the fibers. The lights were kept low, mostly to hide the worn patches in the carpet and the water stains on the ceiling. Everyone looked better in the dark anyway.
"Table four needs a drink, Lena," Marco said, brushing past her. He smelled like garlic and cheap cigarettes.
Lena looked up from the reservation book. "Okay. What about the couple in the back? The ones in the velvet booth?"
"Guy's annoying. Complaining about the ice being too cloudy. Just go deal with it," Marco said, not stopping.
Lena sighed and stepped out from behind her wooden fort. She moved into the room, her heels clicking rhythmically on the parts of the floor where the carpet had worn through to the wood. Three years of doing this meant she didn't have to think about the path anymore. She knew exactly where the floor creaked and where the shadows were deep enough to hide a tired expression. It was just a job, but it was a job that kept her quiet.
The crowd was the usual Friday night mix. There were the local politicians trying to look important, some older women dripping in jewelry that looked too heavy for their necks, and a few lonely guys staring at their phones like they were waiting for a miracle. Lena knew most of them by sight. She knew what they drank and she knew who was likely to leave a bad tip. She didn't really care about their stories. Knowing things about people made you responsible for them, and she wasn't interested in that.
She reached table four. Arthur Halloway was leaning back, his tie loosened. He looked like he'd been there since happy hour.
"Another one, Mr. Halloway?" she asked.
He looked up, his eyes a bit unfocused. "You're a gem, Lena. Seriously. Why aren't you on that stage? You got the look for it."
"I don't like the spotlight, Arthur," she said. It was a line she used at least twice a week. "I'll have Marco bring you another Scotch."
She walked back toward the bar, passing the couple Marco had mentioned. The man was poking at his glass with a finger, looking miserable. Lena didn't stop. If she stopped, she'd have to listen to him talk about ice density, and she didn't have the energy for it.
She leaned against the bar rail. The wood was cool and slightly sticky from a spilled drink someone hadn't wiped up properly. She checked her watch. Ten o'clock. This was the hour when the vibe changed. The "dinner and a nice drink" crowd started to leave, and the "I don't want to go home yet" crowd started to settle in. People got messier after ten. Their secrets started to leak out of their mouths.
Then the front door opened.
Usually, the door was a nuisance. It let in a blast of cold air and the sound of honking taxis. But when this guy stepped in, the room just seemed to get... still. It wasn't like a movie; the music didn't stop. But Lena felt the air change.
He was tall. He had a charcoal grey overcoat that looked like it cost more than her car. He shook a black umbrella out with a quick, sharp motion and handed it to the coat check girl. The girl fumbled it, her face turning red, but the man didn't seem to notice. He just started walking toward the hostess stand.
Lena felt a weird tug in her chest. It was a nervous feeling, like she'd forgotten something important. She straightened her dress and stepped back to her podium.
He didn't scan the room for friends or look at the decor. He looked right at Lena. His eyes were a pale, cold grey, like the sky right before a blizzard.
When he reached the stand, she could smell him. He didn't smell like the usual cologne and booze. He smelled like cold air and something sharp, like cedar. He had a very straight nose and a jawline that looked like it belonged on a statue. There was a small, jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow. It was white and stood out against his tan skin.
"Good evening," he said. His voice was low and flat. No inflection, no warmth.
"Evening," Lena said, clearing her throat. She pulled her professional mask tight. "Do you have a reservation, sir?"
"I don't," he said. "I'd like a booth. Somewhere in the back."
Lena looked at her book. It was Friday. Every booth was spoken for. She should have told him no. She should have offered him a stool at the bar and moved on to the next person. But she didn't. She couldn't stop looking at that scar.
"I... I have one spot," she said, her voice sounding a bit thin to her own ears. "Table nine. The party didn't show."
"Lead the way," he said.
She grabbed a menu and walked him back. She was very aware of him behind her. He walked with a heavy, deliberate stride. She could hear the solid thud of his shoes on the floorboards. It felt like being followed by something big.
She led him to the far corner, where the red velvet drapes were thickest and the light was just a suggestion. It was the quietest spot in the place.
She laid the menu down. "Your server will be with you in a moment."
"I'd prefer if you handled it," he said.
He didn't say it like a request. He said it like a fact. He sat down and started unbuttoning his coat. Underneath, he wore a black suit that fit him perfectly. He looked way too sharp for a place this dusty.
Lena stayed where she was. "I'm the floor manager, sir. I don't usually wait on tables."
"I'm aware," he said. He looked up at her, and for a second, Lena felt like he was reading the fine print on her soul. "But you look like you know how to make a drink properly. The boy at the bar looks like he's guessing."
He wasn't wrong. Jack was new and tended to over-pour the vermouth.
"Rye or Bourbon?" she asked, giving in.
"Rye. Neat. One large ice cube. No fruit."
"I'll see what I can do."
Lena walked back to the bar. Her palms were actually damp. She felt ridiculous. He was just a guy with a nice suit and a scar. But her head was a mess. Who is he? Why is he looking at me like that? Just make the drink. Get it over with.
"Who's the heavy hitter?" Jack asked, leaning over the bar.
"Just a customer, Jack," Lena said. She pushed him aside and grabbed a mixing glass. "He wants a Rye. I'll do it."
"Suit yourself," Jack muttered, going back to polishing a glass that was already clean.
Lena poured the rye. She found a decent piece of ice and dropped it in. She didn't do the fancy stirring. She didn't garnish it. She just wanted to get it to him and go back to her podium.
When she got back to table nine, he was sitting perfectly still. He wasn't looking at his phone. He was just watching the saxophone player with an expression that looked almost bored. He looked tired, she noticed. There were dark circles under his eyes that the shadows had hidden before.
She set the glass down. "Rye. No fruit."
"Thank you," he said. He didn't touch the drink. He looked back at her. "I'm Adrian."
He was waiting. It was an awkward silence that stretched out. Most people in this city didn't introduce themselves like that. They just ordered and ignored you.
"Lena," she said finally.
"Lena," he repeated. He said it slowly, like he was trying to figure out if it was her real name. It wasn't, but he didn't need to know that. "You've been here a while."
"Three years," she said. "How did you know?"
"You move like you own the floor, but you stand like you're ready to run," he said.
Lena felt a chill go right through her. It wasn't a pleasant chill. It was the kind of feeling you get when you realize you're being watched by someone you didn't notice.
"I'm just doing my job," she said, her voice turning cold. "Do you need anything else, Adrian?"
"Not yet," he said. He took a sip of the rye. "I'm just here to observe."
"Observe what?"
"The way people hide," he said. He looked around the room, then back to her. "This place is full of it. People pretending to be someone they aren't. It's interesting."
Lena's heart was thumping against her ribs now. It felt like he was talking directly to her past. To the suitcase she'd packed in the middle of the night three years ago. To the name she'd left behind in a different state.
"It's just a bar, sir," she said, stepping back. "Don't overthink it."
Adrian didn't look offended. He just gave her a small, tight smile that didn't reach his grey eyes. "I think it's exactly what I've been looking for."
He looked away then, focused back on his drink. Lena walked back to the front of the house. She felt like her skin was buzzing.
She got back behind her mahogany stand and gripped the edges of the wood. She usually felt safe here. Disguised. But as she looked across the dim room at the man in table nine, she didn't feel hidden at all.
Adrian was just sitting there, a dark shape in a dark corner, but he felt like a spotlight. And for the first time in a long time, Lena felt like someone was finally looking at her. Not at the dress, or the hostess smile, but at her.
And that was the most dangerous thing that had happened to her in years.