Page 2 of Under Locke & Key

ángel and I play this game every Friday night, taking bets on which sector these guys might be working in.

When I lose, I owe ángel a twenty. He puts it toward his Paris fund.

He wants to walk the streets of Montmartre and feel like a “real poet” even when I tell him that writing poetry makes him one, not the location.

He’s firm. So far, I’ve helped him save up a couple hundred dollars over the last few months.

When he loses, and let’s be honest I lose on those nights as well because most of the time I stay here until they close, ángel takes me to get something greasy to soak up the alcohol.

Raising a newly-bleached eyebrow, ángel has more opportunity to look without being obvious. “I’m going to say Capitol Hill. He’s slinging his jacket over his arm. Looks like he’s heading over here.”

“Oh come on, that is such a cheap shot. Half of the people in this bar probably work on the Hill. Hurry. Give me something real to work with.” I take another swig of the disgusting liquor for some courage.

If he really is heading over here, I need to try and get in the right mindspace.

“Fine. Assistant or intern of some kind.”

I roll my eyes because, again, that’s such a fucking cop out. But we’re out of time. That brief impression of the stranger knocks around in my mind and I settle on, “Finance. Contractor, not government.”

ángel turns pensive, and nods once in a way that I know means it’s a solid guess.

The stool beside me scrapes against the floor as Mr. Gin settles in beside me. I shouldn’t be able to hear it over the music but I feel the vibration in the seat of my own stool and I steel myself.

Flicking my long black hair over my shoulder, I greet him with a pinched smile I’ve spent hours practicing. Not too obvious, not too open. Something that says “thank you for holding the door” or “no, you go first” without drawing attention.

He returns it, and I blink through the haze of my last three drinks to get a proper look at him.

Blonde hair with more product than I have in mine.

It’s subtle but I’ve dated enough high-maintenance people to know how long it takes to get such an effortless style to look that way.

The top two buttons on his shirt are undone. Ring finger is naked.

“Hi.” He holds out his hand for me to shake and his palm is smooth against mine. Office then, for sure. “I’m Austin.”

“As in the city?” I ask and kick myself immediately.

“As in Powers. Like the movie.”

ángel chokes out a scoff and when I give him side eye he has the grace to go fill someone else’s drink before he returns, with his humor under control.

“Oh, wow. Okay, that’s cool.” Is it though? God, this is awkward. When did those movies come out anyway? I squint a little harder through my buzz and he does look young. Younger than my twenty-nine anyway.

“So, what do you do for a living?” he asks and I could kiss him right then and there for hurrying up this little charade. This is about the bet. I decided at the start of the night I’d be going home alone.

“I work for the Senate.” He beams, actually beams. Bright white teeth that his parents must have spent a fortune on. I let the silence stretch just past the point of comfortable before I answer.

“Oh, I’m a software developer. Your job sounds exciting. What do you do up on the Hill?” I’m near choking to inject fake interest into the sentence but flattery gets me there quicker and I’m so ready for this interaction to be over already.

“I’m just an intern right now but I’m hoping to get a job on the press side.”

Fuck . I might as well reach into my purse and slap the twenty on the bar right now. But ángel doesn’t like the camera picking up my extra tips when he’ll just have to split them. So I’ll save it for the end of the night like usual.

He’s an intern, named after a movie that came out in the late nineties (if we’re talking about the first one) which can only mean . . . Oh god.

“How old are you?”

Austin flushes. Never a good sign. “How old are you ?” He lobbies back and this is a fucking nightmare.

I drop the practiced smile and level him with one of my “don’t test your bullshit on me” looks. His blush fades into a pale terror.

“Austin. How old are you?”

ángel is back, and if he were a dog his ears would be upright and turning toward us like a fucking antenna searching for signal.

“Twenty-two.”

A veritable baby. God, am I in cougar territory already?

Sure, my knees hurt sometimes when I’ve been sitting at my desk for too long but that’s from disuse, not age.

ángel snickers and pours me a glass of water, setting it next to the offending gin.

What kind of fucking twenty-two-year-old sends gin ?

I’m sure there are some mature guys in their early twenties, but, from my experience, the men on the Hill are no better than frat boys at that age, and I really don’t have it in me to train one again.

The last one ended with a whimper and pushed me toward the worst relationship I’ve ever had.

A reverse Good Luck Chuck and just as terrible.

“Look, it’s very kind of you to send over a drink. I appreciate it, really. I’m just a little too old for you, I think.”

Gentle. Make it about you .

“It’s okay. I don’t mind an older woman. My ex was twenty-five.”

“Yeah, well I’m twenty-nine. Bit of a bigger difference there. So, unless you’re interested in getting married and having kids sometime soon, I’d recommend you give me a pass.”

The word married makes him swallow—hard. The word kids has him looking downright sick and I can’t help but empathize. God, I’m still so angry at Andrew and the implications he didn’t have the balls or stupidity to admit to.

“I—you—” he stutters. “Have a good night.” Austin rushes away, back to his table of friends and I can already hear them laughing at his rejection. It’s good-natured ribbing at least. He’ll get over it, or under someone younger.

“Now, why did you go and lie to the boy? You have no interest in marriage and as far as I can recall you said kids were quote, ‘nice for some but definitely not for me, and so far off my radar the concept might as well exist on another planet.’”

“ Twenty-two ,” I hiss in response and he takes the gin from me, pouring it down the drain and saving me the torture.

“Speaking of twenties. I expect mine when we leave.” His smile is sly, and I wish he still had his longer dark hair so I could ruffle it. This shorn and bleached look works for him, offset against his golden skin, but it’s way less fun.

“Have I ever let you down?” I ask.

“Not unless we’re counting that first night.”

I sigh again, second time tonight, and it feels a little excessive to be this annoyed by small things when other—bigger—things are what drove me here to drink in the first place.

“How the hell was I supposed to know you were going through it? It wasn’t until we were in bed and you were crying that I realized I was just a rebound. The only way I let you down was by not being Jesse—something you were super kind about at least.”

His smile drops into something more regretful, “And thank goodness for it because he was a mess. One I was tired of cleaning up. Plus, we work so much better as friends.” Pushing the glass of water closer to me, ángel urges me to drink.

I swig the liquid back, my stomach so pleased it doesn’t burn on the way down. ángel heads over to the other side of the bar to take care of another one of my colleagues.

And then I feel the heft of an arm slung over my shoulders and the acrid smell of alcohol already leaching through Keith’s skin.

He’s put his drink on the bar beside my glass of water and effectively boxed me in with his body.

The heat is unwelcome and the smell in conjunction with the gin I’ve failed to wash away the taste of is enough to make me want to gag.

“Rach, Rach, Rach . What did you say to scare off the little cub? It took quite a bit of bolstering from us to get him to approach you. You’re not getting any younger, you know.

You’ve got to grab life by the horns before it’s too late.

Then again, maybe you like your men a little bit more”—Keith bends down, taking the invasion of space from uncomfortable to unbearable—“experienced.” The last word is a rasp against the shell of my ear and I shudder.

And the fact that it echoes what Andrew said earlier makes me feel sick.

Stroking his fingertips over my shoulder, I shrug him off of me and slide to standing in order to put some distance between us.

“You’re drunk. I think you should have some water and sober up.”

“You’re just upset about the imbalance between us now. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I know what that intensity means.”

It means I hate your fucking guts.

“I won’t tell anyone. You don’t have to worry about getting in trouble at work if we do. Just because I’m your boss now doesn’t mean we can’t have fun outside of the office.”

He’s encroaching on my space again and I take a step back, bumping into the barstool beside me.

Part of me wants to lash out but the smarter, more careful, part of me reminds me for a second time tonight not to antagonize them so that I don’t have to worry about retaliation, either physically or at work.

“There a problem here?” ángel asks and I sigh in relief. Keith’s attention is diverted.

“This is none of your business.” Keith’s rudeness would have been red-flag enough even without all the unwanted attention.

“If you’re harassing one of my patrons then it’s my business. Now, unless you want to get cut off and kicked out, you’ll back off.”

Keith sneers at ángel but grabs his drink, sloshing some of it over the side before he walks away.

“Just in time. Thank you.” My relief is a little too acute to dismiss as no big deal and ángel can tell I’m shaken.