I think that’s why Fletch let me off the hook with only a warning when I lost my shit last month. He pitied me. The poor woman who got a man killed and now spends her days preparing for a war.
Who cares who this guy is? It isn’t like I’m going to see him again.
I turn to stare up at him and no surprise, he’s looking right at me, his gaze so intense it’s like he can see every atom of who I am, every crack and broken bit inside me. Does he know I’m a mess and barely hanging on?
I sway and blink, readying to walk away before I further embarrass myself. But before I go, I get one long, last look at him. Even in this increasingly fuzzy state, I hate to even think it, but he’s disarmingly attractive.
4
ZERO
Morgan’s high or well on her way to it. Unfortunately, I’m slow to accept the fact despite how she slurred her final words to that guy, she gripped a pill bottle like it was keeping her alive, or her sluggish steps back to her car.
The screech of her tires peeling out of the parking lot shakes me from my disturbing thoughts. Dammit, I shouldn’t have let her get behind the wheel.
I jog to my car and hightail it out of there, quick to find her on the busy road. The car isn’t swerving and she isn’t speeding or going below the speed limit. I’ll follow her, stay close in case of anything. I know where she’s headed.
The Emerald Lounge. A popular bar with both the locals and tourists alike, where Morgan works as a server.
Her time in Destin and this job are the longest stints she’s had in all the years since graduating summa cum laude, as we’d say here in the US, with a Bachelor of Science degree in Physics from the University of Toronto.
The woman is smart. Crazy-smart, and yet she wanders from place to place without any real ties, career, or home. Is she an addict?
When I researched all involved in the robbery, there was nothing to indicate she was using or had any brushes with the law. Most recently, she’d been seeing a psychiatrist for a little over four months. Toward the end of those sessions, she filled a prescription for benzos, Xanax, with only one refill on file.
Given the dose and quantity of the prescription, she hasn’t been taking them for long, only a month or so, and should still have the refill or only just filled it. But I know that isn’t the case.
Xanax is used to treat anxiety, panic attacks, and insomnia, all of which make sense for Morgan. The drug is a short acting benzodiazepine but has a high abuse potential. Again, Morgan’s the perfect candidate for that shit.
She lazily turns into the Lounge lot and clumsily wrestles with her bag and keys as she stumbles from her car to the back of the building.
I understand addicts better than most. I am one and while clean for years, I don’t need to be around another addict. That’s a recipe for disaster.
I should drop this now. There’s more to lose than gain from helping her even if I can relate on some level.
Still, I’m somehow moored to Morgan.
She’s an enigma.
Her digital footprint is superfluous, like so many, painting a picture of only the good times. Nothing of value.
Morgan Rothwell is the same age as I am—twenty-nine—and wealthy. She has all the means to arm herself with guards, a fortress, or whatever else her heart desires, and yet she chooses to live on a small paycheck and tips.
Her days are spent slogging it at a local club, dealing with drunken, handsy assholes, and going to a shooting range to embolden herself. To make herself believe she can protect herself, that she’s safe—all of which may be true. But why?
I saunter to the front doors of the Emerald Lounge, head down in case Morgan’s on the floor. I don’t want her to see me. Not yet and not this soon after the range.
“Hi, there.” A lithe dark-haired woman strolls from the bar with a warm smile and a wave. “Welcome to the Emerald Lounge. You lookin’ to eat or just have a drink?”
Scanning the room, I don’t see Morgan and have no idea which section of the room to avoid. “Eat.”
“All right.” She grabs a menu from the hostess station and peers up at me. “Would you prefer the dining room or bar?”
“A booth. Somewhere quiet.”
The mystical guitar riff of the Cult’s “She Sells Sanctuary” infuses every corner of the establishment as the hostess’s eyebrows creep to her hairline as if to say “Dude, why are you here if you want quiet?” before she ambles toward a deserted corner of the dining room. It’s a little after five and the place is starting to fill up. I’m about to follow when a male voice catches my attention.
“Hey, Lorna, where’s Morgan?”
I pause to take in a tall, lanky blond guy closing in on a curvy redhead. She’s less than a couple of feet from where I stand, and so as to not look obvious, I stare at a huge chalkboard taking up most of one wall where beers and cocktails are listed.
“She’s…uh.” Lorna, or at least that’s who I think she is, bites on her bottom lip and edges closer to the guy.
I do the same, sliding a foot or two in their direction, all the better to hear them. Neither notices me, both deep in conversation, their mutual concern for Morgan evident in their hunched shoulders and tense expressions.
“What’s wrong?” The guy’s voice carries easily from this distance. “Is she okay? Do I need to go get her?” His tender concern suggests he’s done this before, that he cares about Morgan, and my gut twists.
“Shhh, Todd,” she hisses and clutches at his wrist. “I don’t want Shug to hear or worse, Arissa.”
“The Demogorgon isn’t here yet, relax. And Shug…” Todd glances around the place, briefly latching onto me before drifting back to the redhead. “I think he went out for a bit. What’s going on with her? Her shift starts now.”
“She’s here but passed out in the back.”
“What do you mean? Is she sick?” The guy turns toward a door marked employees.
Lorna stops him with a squeeze to the arm. “No. I don’t think so. She just looked exhausted and kind of…”
“Lorna, get on with it.”
“Her pupils were shot. I don’t know if she’ll be able to work her shift.”
“Shit.”
The hostess marches toward me, smiling despite the confusion weighing on her features. “There you are. I thought you were behind me.”
I point to the board. “Uh, yeah. I, um, was checking out the drinks.”
“Oh, it’s okay. We have them on the menu too.” She motions for me to follow and I’m torn, wanting to stay put and hear about Morgan, but if I don’t get a move on, I’ll only create further suspicion.
“Here you go.” The hostess hands me the menu. “Lorna, your server, will be with you in a minute.”
I inwardly smile at the server’s name. I should be able to use this to my advantage.
Within minutes, the redhead’s at the table, all worries erased from her demeanor. “Hi, how are you doing?”
I nod, eyes studying Lorna. She looks to be about Morgan’s age, and I recall her name from my research on the club. Lorna Kent. British parents, born and raised in Florida. Morgan hangs out with her.