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“He’s late,” Birdie says. “I put too much stock in him being predictable. What if he doesn’t show?”
I walk away from the bar and take another real sip. “If you say he’ll show, he’ll show. Give it some more time.”
Another twenty minutes pass, and the rest of my beer has remained untouched. From where I’m watching Captain play in a doggie pool, I keep an eye on the entrance and Birdie, noting that she’s growing more anxious with every minute. I’m just about to reassure her again when the target walks through the gate. “Got him,” I say into the warm beer can.
“I see him,” Birdie reports.
The asshole removes the leash from a sad dog’s collar and walks straight to the bar. Of course, the seat he chooses is one that gives him the best vantage point of a group of teenage girls hovering around the sprinklers.
I mill around a little longer before visiting the bathroom to pour out the rest of my beer. Confirming that the room is empty, I speak freely to Birdie and Jackson. “I’m about to move in.”
Outside, I pretend to gulp down the last of the lager and walk straight toward the bar. The empty can sails into a nearby trash can, catching the man’s attention. That and I intentionally moved into his line of sight. Charles Mercan focuses on my face, and I give him a chin lift before looking away toward the barkeep. “Lager, please.”
I pay for the beer and turn around, leaning against the bar next to Mercan. Pretending to scan the yard for a bit, I take a big swig of the beer and mumble a little louder than just to myself. “That is one tight ass.”
My stare is locked onto the wood fence above the sprinklers, but Mercan doesn’t know that. He attempts to follow my gaze, landing his right where I expected him to, on the teen girls. Because he took the bait, I make a show of noticing and act guilty, backpedaling. “I mean… um… shit.”
I turn my hat around, pull the bill low, and storm off to make it look like I’ve been caught. “Captain,” I call as I sit at an umbrella table near the young women.
The happy boxer bounds up to me carrying a toss ring. I fling it out several times, continuing to look over the heads of the teenagers playing nearby. Now that I’ve aligned myself with Mercan, he will be watching me closely. At least, that’s the goal.
I sneak peeks toward the girls, landing my gaze on anything and everything except human bodies. Alternately, I glance around the yard like someone afraid of being accused of staring at kids.
After a few minutes of this, I set the beer at my hip and call Captain again. As I’d hoped, she stomps all over the place, kicking over the can. This gives me the opening I need.
“Wow,” I hear through the radio. “You’re really good at this,” Birdie says. “You could have been an undercover cop.”
I tried. Failed miserably. Apparently, part of the entry process is seeing how quickly you can be riled up. “Nah. With my well-documented anger issues, I’d be a political liability.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Jackson argues.
Tossing the second empty, I show my wet hip to the barkeep. “Another lager, please. My dog seems determined to make you guys some extra money today.”
Captain, who’s followed me to the bar, nudges my leg with a ball in her mouth. Good girl. I take the ball from her and throw it, grumbling to myself. “That’s the last time, you little cock blocker.”
Mercan laughs, but the sound is anything but pleasant. His roaming eyes and sleazy smile make my skin crawl. Regardless, his reaction presents me with the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. “Seriously. That little bitch has got the worst timing.”
“I take it you don’t like the attention.”
Overtly studying the man, I answer warily, “I don’t mind an audience as long as it’s the right kind.”
“Or the right age,” he says cooly.
Looking left and right for eavesdroppers, I bark, “The fuck are you trying to say?”
The guy puts his hands up. “Nothing. Besides. You don’t have a ring on your finger. You can look as long as you want.”
He leans over then. “As long as you don’t get caught.”
Getting closer. Leveling my most suspicious yet curious glare, I stare at the guy for a moment. Then, by some miracle, a barely legal coed saunters up to the bar, thrusting her chest over the top.
She’s so close to me that her arm brushes against mine when reaching for a drink menu. The girl is obviously trying to get my attention. I act uninterested, which isn’t hard. Not when I spent last night holding Birdie’s body next to mine.
Further distracting me from the tits now touching my bicep, Jackson’s voice comes over the radio. “I’m going to get us something to drink. Water, soda, beer?”
“Water’s fine,” Birdie answers.
Mercan grins, a sick sight. He assumes I’m not attracted to the breasty woman because she’s old enough to drink. I’m happy to let him think so because that gets me closer to hearing him brag about his sins.