"Jameson, neat. Thanks," Rick orders. He turns toward Kate. "What's your poison?"
"Two shots of Patron," she answers, leaning against the shiny wood countertop.
The bearded bartender shoots her a look. "How old are you?"
"Old enough."
The bartender shrugs, uncaring, pouring out their orders.
Kate knocks back both of her shots before the writer even takes a sip of his whisky. He raises his brow.
"Bad day?" he jokes.
"Met a real pain in the ass," she retorts.
"An ass that provided you with food, drink, and a ride," he counters.
"So I owe you, is that it?" she says combatively, squaring her shoulders.
"No," he says, "But I would like to know what I did to piss you off so much."
The hard, defensive angles in her face soften, and she stares at a scratch in the counter.
"Maybe I'm mad at the world and you happen to be in my way today," she says quietly.
"Why so mad?"
She cuts her gaze to him, all hard angles again.
"You ask too many questions, Writer Boy."
"It's in my nature," he says, "I wanna know your story."
"Yeah, well, I don't wanna tell it," she says, signaling the bartender for another shot.
"Okay, then. Why don't I tell you a story instead?" he offers.
When she doesn't protest, he continues.
"Back in the 70s, a couple managed this place. Thorna and Don. One night, the wife heads upstairs, but she accidentally trips, tumbles down, and ends ups breaking her neck. She falls into a coma but weeks later, she dies. Her husband is so devastated that he ends up using a rifle to shoot himself in front of the fireplace over there. And now, they say that both of their ghosts are still hanging around, tending bar together." He smiles at her. "Kind of romantic, don't you think?"
Her expression folds into disagreement.
"More like kind of tragic."
"So tragic, it's practically Shakespearean," he says with a dramatic flourish.
"You're a little twisted, aren't you?"
"At least they're together in the afterlife, right?"
Her new shot arrives.
"If that's what you want to believe," she says, swiftly picking it up and slamming it back.
"Let me guess, you were one of those annoying six year olds that stopped believing in Santa Claus because you figured out he couldn't travel faster than the speed of light."
She hesitates, mid-wipe of her mouth, her eyes narrowing with contempt.
"Stop trying to analyze me."
He puts his hands up in apology.
"Minor in Psych. Occupational hazard."
She pushes off from the counter, moving away.
"Woah, wait. Where you goin'?" he asks, compulsively reaching for her.
She pauses, glaring at the fingers he's latched around her wrist. He immediately removes them.
"Sorry, I just—"
"I appreciate the drinks," she says calmly. "But I suggest you go find another girl."
"What?"
"I'm not gonna be your rebound," she clarifies.
"I'm not asking you to be," he says with a slightly stunned laugh. And then, with a bit of bravado, says, "But there was a redhead back in Hollywood who didn't seem to mind so much."
"Seriously?" she deadpans.
"Sorry, that's not what I meant to say." He sighs and sweeps a nervous hand through his dark mop. "Look, I'm not trying to get into your pants, okay?"
"Oh, sure. You just want to talk," she says with a hint of irony.
"Like I said, I wanna know your story. You intrigue me, and..." His gaze flits to her line of empty shots. "You seem like you could use a friend is all."
Pain fissures over her face, her hard mask cracking, and he catches the glimmer of grief in her eyes again.
But she quickly arranges the mask back into place, her eyes sharpening into daggers.
"Problem is, I don't need a friend."
With that, she brushes past him and heads toward the dance floor, her arms arcing up in the air and her hips swaying. He stares after her, more interested than ever to know her story. What the hell was she hiding behind that mask?
Before he knows it, his pen's in hand and he's cataloging what he's learned about her so far:
-grew up in Manhattan, likely well-off (drives a Harley Softail, expensive)
-dropped out of school—which one? something west coast-based? (possibly UCLA, USC, Berkley, Stanford)
-not quite 21 years old, at least 18 - 20
-running away from something in her past, maybe the person who hurt her?
-likes strawberry milkshakes and Star Wars
-doesn't like ghosts, skeptic
-quick-witted, acerbic, smart
-strong, confident, rebellious
-smoking hot
His pen falters. Oh, shit.
He likes her.
It feels as if he's betraying Kyra somehow.
He slept with someone else, but this girl…the way he's trying to impress her, trying to get close to her. It's different. He can't quite put his finger on it, on her—this mysterious, sphinx-like young woman with the haunted eyes and sad smile. But she makes the words pour from him like the unstoppable gush of water from a broken fire hydrant.
Every time he tried to learn more about her, she pushed him further away. He wanted to respect her wishes, leave her alone. But it was as if something was pulling him toward her like a magnetic force. Needing to know how deep the well of grief in her eyes went.
He scratches out theories about her.
Did she drop out of school because of an illicit affair with a professor? Ooo, a married professor? Or maybe a close friend died, a casualty of a college party gone wrong…
His mind ventures into darker corners. Victim of sexual assault? he writes, his heart wrenching, hating the possibility of it. Hating that monsters existed. God, what if…
A fierce need to protect her overwhelms him.
He glances up periodically from his seat at the bar, spying on his new muse. She steals a cowboy hat off a stranger and jumps into a group of line-dancers, executing each choreographed step with ease. Her impulsive behavior fascinates him.
-budding kleptomaniac
-good dancer
-lively spirit
An hour later, one of her dance partners is buying her another round of shots.
-self-sabotaging?
-self-medicating?
She catches him staring from across the bar, her face inscrutable. He gives her a little wave. She returns his gesture with a frown and slams her empty shot down with undue force. Next, she yanks her dance partner back out to the floor, and soon, they're drunkenly making out, her mouth swallowing over the dark-haired hunk, rough and sloppy.
Just fascinating.
She doesn't want to be another one of his rebounds, yet she doesn't seem to mind hooking up with a complete and total stranger at all.
That's her prerogative. But it only makes him curiouser and curiouser.
Or maybe it's like his night with the redhead, and she's just trying to feel something with no-strings and no real consequences.
And he's the guy asking too many questions, attempting to get up close and personal, so she needs to shut him out.
-guarded
-scared to let people in
-why?
The last time he glances up, seeking her out, he can't find her in the crowd.
Shit.
She could be in the bathroom, but he watches a woman exit the one-stall room just then that's not her.
Fuck, she must've left.
He kicks himself. He'd wanted to make sure she made it back to the motel alright, at least. Especially since he aided and abetted in plying her with alcohol. Oh, God, his mother was going to disown him.
He flags the bartender down.
"That girl I came in with. Have you seen her recently?"
"Last I saw, she was getting hot and heavy with that cowboy. Not your night, huh?"
"Yeah, thanks," he says, distracted. He knows it's the simplest, most logical explanation: that she and that guy went 'home' together.
She's an adult. (Barely). But she can do whatever she wants.
And yet...for some reason, he's not buying it. Something's wrong. He can feel it somehow, a deep dread pinching in his gut. He has to find her...but where could she have gone?
As if in answer to his question, the light above the back exit suddenly fritzes, drawing his attention, and the door beneath bangs loudly, caught up in a stray gust of wind. The whole thing seems almost otherworldly. Maybe it's the whisky, but he would swear it's almost like someone or something is sending him a literal sign...
He jumps into action without second thought. He throws cash on the counter, stuffs his things into his pockets, and rushes toward the exit. Cool, night-desert air hits him when he bursts out the backdoor. He stops for a moment, wondering if he made the right choice.
The door slams shut behind him with a pointed finality.
Okay, then. Kate must be close.
He hurriedly scans the backlot. Nothing. C'mon, where was she?
Thorna? Don? He thinks helplessly, a foolish hope.
The sound of smashing glass alerts him. He sprints toward the noise, rounding the corner into an alley.
He spots her purple Chuck Taylors first.
Thank you he whispers to the universe, to the ghosts, he's not sure, relief spearing through him.
But it's short-lived, his heart dropping into his stomach when he sees her pushing her dance partner away.
"C'mon, don't be like that. You didn't seem to mind it earlier," the cowboy jeers.
"Hey! Leave her alone!" Rick shouts.
The man startles and Kate takes the opportunity to smash the heel of her shoe onto his foot and propel her knee into his crotch.
"Fuckin' bitch!" the man screeches, hobbling away to the backlot.
The writer approaches her with caution. "You okay?"
"Fine. I had it under control," she mumbles, tightening her jacket around her shoulders.
"That was really badass."
She crams her hands into her armpits and walks toward the street, silent, but she doesn't tell him off. He falls in step beside her, quiet.
A few blocks later, she slows to a halt in front of a 24 hour Sonic Drive-Thru.
"You hungry? My treat," she says, not meeting his eye.
An olive branch.
"I could eat."
xxx
A/N: RIP to the real Thorna and Don. I hope they're happily tending bar together in the afterlife. If anyone ever visits the Museum Club in Flagstaff, AZ, please say hello for me!