Page 4

Five years before Derrick Bell’s murder

“He says you know what he drinks.”

Noelle sighed. “That doesn’t mean I’m the only one who can pour it for him. He likes Stoli on the rocks. If he complains, tell him I’m busy.”

The other bartender rolled her eyes and grabbed the bottle of Stolichnaya. “Men.”

“Women do the same thing to Patrick.” The male bartender was openly gay but flirted with everyone. His tips were usually 30 percent more than Noelle’s.

And her tips were nothing to sniff at.

Using the mirrored wall behind the bottles, she sneaked a glance at Mr. Stoli.

He met her gaze, a half smile on his lips.

Shit.

He’d been at the bar her last five work nights, and she wondered if he’d also come in on her nights off.

He’d been polite every time. Never demanded her attention or attempted to engage her in pointless small talk.

He used her name—obvious on her elegant name tag—but had never offered his, and she’d never asked.

Tonight was the first time he’d requested she wait on him.

He was attractive in an understated way and had something that made women—including herself—take a second glance.

He reminded her of the wingman in a romance movie.

The one you knew was a good guy but wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous like the lead actor.

But when you listened closer and watched his actions, you knew he was the real hero of the story. Dependable. Solid. Trustworthy.

Several of the bar patrons appeared to know Mr. Stoli, stopping to talk, offering a few bro-slaps on the back or a brisk handshake.

They listened as he spoke, their eyes stating they respected what he had to say.

Since the bar was two blocks from the capitol building, she assumed he had a role in the California state legislature.

The bar was always packed with bureaucrats.

Since she’d started working there three years earlier, she’d learned that bureaucrats were fast and loose with their business credit cards.

Quick to slap them down when gathered with a group; it was a subtle competition over who was the most benevolent that evening.

They were generous with tips, and the drinks cost double—or more—than at other bars. It all added up to money in her pocket.

Money was a good thing.

Noelle had lived without money; living with it was preferable.

She’d cut her bartending teeth at a chain restaurant outside of Sacramento, deftly deflecting hints from out-of-state salesmen and married men pretending to be on a hall pass.

She hadn’t smiled or giggled when they grabbed her ass; she’d simply stared them down, her gaze saying, “Don’t be a dick.

” They’d get flustered and stop but often stated their displeasure with a low tip.

She added a fake wedding ring, but it made no difference in their attention.

She learned to read people in a flash. Which ones were dangerous or depressed. Which ones just needed an ear for a minute. She was studying psychology and was fascinated to learn what made people tick. She always wanted to discover the why behind everyone’s actions.

Adding up her change and single bills every night while her lips were numb from hours of smiles and laughing at lame jokes while paying her way through college had encouraged her to search for a job with better income.

A friend had told her about an opening at an upscale bar and strongly suggested Noelle present her most polished self for an interview.

Ready to escape the chain restaurant, Noelle had lightened her blonde hair and carefully coaxed it into an elegant twist. She’d always been told she was stately and stylish, so she focused on enhancing those assets.

She was taller than most women and drew eyes when she entered a room, the glances always admiring.

She went to the Chanel counter the morning of the job interview, got a makeover, and then pretended not to care as she parted with hard-earned tips to buy the lipstick. The cost would have filled her car’s gas tank, getting her back and forth to work and college for two weeks.

The saleswoman who’d skillfully done Noelle’s eyes had deserved more than the commission from just the lipstick, disappointment flashing in her eyes at the small sale after more than a half hour of her time.

Noelle understood. She’d felt the same after hustling for rowdy groups of drinkers only to get a subpar tip.

Noelle promised herself she’d return to buy the foundation and mascara if she was hired.

Perfect hair and makeup on board. Eye drops to erase the previous night’s late shift. A snug black skirt and crisp white blouse borrowed from her sister paired with her own spiked pumps. She got the job.

And I nailed the interview.

Noelle had never lacked in confidence. She’d always lifted her chin and put her best foot forward. It’d shown as the bar manager quizzed her on drinks and customer management, and then he’d hired her on the spot.

She went back to Chanel and bought the mascara and foundation and added an eye shadow palette; the total cost made her stomach churn.

Fake it till you make it was a favorite saying of her grandfather’s, and it’d always worked for Noelle. She was a quick study and willingly put in the hours needed to get a leg up on the competition. She believed in hard work. Consistency. Daily efforts.

Chipping away with her eye on the prize.

Mr. Stoli is not my prize.

She lowered her gaze and returned to her other customers after holding his stare for a moment. Long enough to let him know she didn’t intimidate easily and that their eye contact meant nothing. But now she couldn’t completely avoid him because that would be too obvious.

Obvious about what?

That he’d captured her attention.

Dammit.

She didn’t date where she worked. The policy had served her well. The bar environment was rarely where stable long-term relationships were born.

She knew; she was living proof. Her first marriage had lasted two months.

She’d been eighteen with a fake ID and seeking an adventure in a small-town bar.

He’d been twenty-three with a chip on his shoulder and the most beautiful blue eyes and black lashes.

She’d thought he was an adult; he’d thought she idolized him.

Which I did.

Until I didn’t.

After her bank account had been emptied and her credit cards maxed out, she’d hung her head as she crawled back to her grandfather’s house. He’d listened—unlike she had when he told her not to marry the man. And then welcomed her back home with loving arms.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he’d said. “You’re lucky to get this one out of the way early in life.”

He kindly didn’t point out that he’d never made that mistake.

His long marriage to her grandmother had been storybook-worthy.

A match built on respect and love. In the six years since Noelle’s disaster of a marriage, she’d only briefly dated two men.

She was determined to be financially independent before entering a serious relationship.

Noelle glanced again at Mr. Stoli. His attention was focused on his conversation with two men in dark suits and red power ties.

A small sting of disappointment touched her, and she shook her head, annoyed that she wanted to meet his gaze again.

No more mistakes.

The lucrative bartending job was important to her. She’d erased her credit card debt and made a hefty dent in her student loans.

To make herself stand out at the bar, she’d researched techniques to add flair to the simple act of pouring ingredients together, making the customer feel there was value in the experience as well as in the alcohol.

Management had paid for her to become a certified sommelier, and she was currently a level two.

Wine fascinated her, and she enjoyed sharing her knowledge with customers.

She often considered continuing on to become an advanced and then master sommelier.

Maybe someday. Maybe a job at a winery in Italy or France in the future.

Right now she was content.

Working at the posh bar suited her. Interacting with the patrons stimulated her mind and enhanced her people skills.

She studied each customer, watching their expressions, listening to their tone, and then would guess what their next words or actions would be, putting her fascination with psychology to work.

She threw all her concentration into her new position.

She became the person they depended on when someone called in sick.

She willingly took extra hours and was the peacemaker between grumpy employees.

After six months, she was offered a management position, which she reluctantly turned down because it would mean fewer tips.

She was in a good spot. The customers paid much more for drinks, wore better clothing, and smelled much nicer than at her first job.

There were other subtle differences in the patrons at the high-end bar.

Men no longer grabbed her ass. Instead, they grabbed her arm or hand to get her attention.

The leers were more muted, but the message the same.

The tips were worth it.

A sharp rap on the wood bar made her spin around with an automatic smile on her lips.

Every bar seat was taken, but she knew immediately which patron had tapped his glass, the clink of his ice sphere indicating the bourbon she’d poured minutes before was gone.

She reached for the bottle of Maker’s Mark as she asked him, “How is your teenager adjusting to her new school?” With her gaze, she included his wife in the question.

The couple were regulars, and the first time they’d met, she’d immediately noticed the wife didn’t appreciate her husband chitchatting with Noelle.

The woman had set a hand on her husband’s arm and straightened her spine, her expression reserved.

Since then, whenever the husband pulled Noelle into conversation, Noelle always directed her answers to his wife, leaning slightly toward her as if they were sharing a confidence, or she would change the topic to discuss something the wife enjoyed.

Like shoes. She shared Noelle’s passion for Italian heels and red wines.

Neither of which Noelle could spend money on.

Noelle listened as the woman described her daughter’s struggle with math, and her husband silently watched Noelle pour his drink, his slouch and sudden lack of eye contact indicating he had conceded the conversation to the women.

Noelle added an additional pour of bourbon to his drink with a wink at his wife, making him happy while simultaneously having a silent, companionable exchange with the woman.

Make everyone happy; that was her goal.

She glanced down the bar, checking everyone’s drink level and scanning for eye contact.

Mr. Stoli’s gaze slammed into hers.

She lifted a brow. Need another drink?

He gave a minuscule shake of his head. No.

Then he stood, held her gaze for a long second as he pushed in his stool, and turned away.

Disappointment flooded her.

What did I expect?

She straightened her back, remembering her priorities: work hard, get ahead, then have fun.

Noelle turned as a patron called her name, and she put Mr. Stoli out of her mind.

He’ll be back.