Читать книгу Piano in the Dark - Eric Pete - Страница 7

I groaned as Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” reverberated through the midtown pub for the second time in a row, finding fleeting solace instead in the bottom of my empty shot glass.

“Tell me again why we came here on karaoke night?” I asked my boy Jacobi as I raised my hand to request another round of Cuervo from the attractive waitress. As before, she held her smile a little longer for me. Lips curling to which mine reciprocated.

“Because the drinks are cheap. Duh.”

“Like you don’t have enough billable hours to afford a private room at Downing Street.”

“True enough,” he agreed, never one to let something like humility get in his way. The only time Jacobi used the word humble was when he dropped the H sound and referred to the town of Humble north up the East-ex Freeway. “But the pickings here are better. Even if they sing like scalded cats.”

“I’m not here for that, man,” I reminded him before he tried to get me in some sort of trouble. “I’ll leave the pussy-chasing to you.”

“Whose fault is that, idiot? You were my role model in law school.” The silent now look at you was almost palpable in the air, hovering like a big flashing neon sign over us whenever too many drinks were consumed. Especially when too many drinks were consumed.

Jacobi finished law school at TSU, Texas Southern University, while I simply unfinished…dropped out with a bunch of student loans and no shingle to show for it. Now I worked for Casey, Warner & Associates, the same law firm as him, but as his paralegal. But I was happy. Yeah. That’s it.

“I’m happy with my decisions, man,” I said, vocalizing my thoughts as if some sort of therapeutic exercise. “You wish you had a wife like mine.”

Before he could string together a remark, my iPhone rang in my jacket pocket. Speak of the devil. Thinking back to our argument before I came out here, I decided to ignore it. Disagreements were the currency in which we exchanged these days. The sounds of frolicking and cavorting in the background during a phone conversation with Dawn would only make things worse. I’d deal with her and my impending hangover when I got home.

“Speak of the devil?” Jacobi joked, reading my mind as any close friend could. He was also the best man in my wedding.

“Yeah. Too noisy in here, though. I’ll text her later.”

Another round of shots was delivered to us. Jacobi thanked our waitress, slipping her an early tip along with his business card. The same waitress who’d shown definite interest in me all night. I started to say something to Jacobi, but declined. This was his game, not mine. I was here to put my problems on hold, not to generate new ones—no matter how attractive.

Jacobi smiled. Teeth as impeccable as his attire. “Like you said, man. You’re happy with your decisions.”

Several bad songs later, it was closing time. Pathetic as it was, we were carrying on like this on a weekday. Boys afraid to grow up. Jacobi offered me to sleep it off at his place, a luxury condo on Binz Street near Hermann Park and Rice University, as he had his designated driver chosen. I declined, watching our waitress for the night as she maneuvered his Range Rover from the curb and left me to my own devices with a honk of the horn and thoughts of how differently things could’ve gone down. A lot could’ve gone down differently. I could be that high-priced hotshot lawyer on the cover of all the right magazines in Houston. But that wasn’t the choice for me.

I stood outside the pub on the ever quieting street, debating whether to head straight home or grab some coffee at a Waffle House and sober up first. Spring, to the north where I lived, was a haul in my current state.

I unlocked my Camry with the remote. Decided to rest against it and take in the sticky night air before driving off. The missed call from earlier still shown on my iPhone. In a typical instance of too little, too late on my part, I sent a text to Dawn.

Worked late on big case with J. Be home soon.

I was almost the sole refugee from closing time at this hour.

I took a few deep breaths, sampling the spent residue of a depleted midtown in an effort to clear my head. The intake reeked of big talk long over and alcohol-induced false promises. Soured by the atmosphere, I prepared to enter my car and leave.

Except I wasn’t alone.

What was strange was that I knew before I’d even turned to look. An awareness I’d never experienced before.

A woman in a simple black dress stood near the corner of Bagby and Webster. Under the streetlights, she appeared almost ethereal in nature. Lonely. As if, for that moment, she were the captive subject in a French painting or something with the city as her backdrop. Long ebony hair obscured her face, making me more than mildly curious. Rather than crossing the street and getting on with her purpose in life or whatnot, she just…stood.

Stood kind of like the hairs on the back of my neck, telling me something was either very wrong or strangely right. The area was relatively safe for me at this time of night, but all that was needed was opportunity in the form of a lovely victim such as herself to make the headlines of the morning’s Chronicle.

“Ma’am,” I called out politely and in an as sober as possible fashion. “Are you waiting on a taxi or something? Because the bus isn’t running for several hours and it’s not safe for you.”

“I’m fine,” she said calmly. She was stone cold sober. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m okay. I live around here—”

I startled her. Had to come closer for some reason. Hit the remote to lock up the Camry again as I stepped back onto the sidewalk to join her. Was as if something was drawing me in despite my needing to be on my way. Something more sobering than Waffle House coffee.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” I offered as my tired, red eyes adjusted to the streetlights. She was beautiful—a basic, but apt description of her. She was little paler than what I was accustomed to, but with smooth, flawless skin, the sister appeared almost East Indian. Tall in her heels, she looked to be about five foot five with them off. Beneath her full eyebrows, her piercing brown eyes glistened; eyes that seemed almost alien and exotic under the light. Okay. The tequila shots had taken their toll on me. “Just wanted to make sure nothing was…wrong.”

As I spoke, those eyes of hers flared in recognition. It was as if a new energy manifested and suddenly erupted from her. It overcame me and rendered me speechless. “Oh my God. Chase,” she said, her voice wavering.

It wasn’t a guess or a question coming from an addled mind. She knew me. Somehow she knew me.

But I’d never seen her before in my life.