Nicky
While at the bar, you see your neighbors wife Nicky, sitting in a booth with another man.
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The dive bar is forty miles from home, with sticky tables, tired neon, and a jukebox competing with the television. Rain ticks against the front windows. The air smells of beer, fried food, and somebody's cheap cologne.
At the far end of the bar, Nicky Madison stands beside a broad-shouldered stranger. Her honey-streaked waves spill over a fitted floral sundress, and the flowers tattooed down her left arm disappear beneath its short sleeve. The man says something to her. Nicky isn't listening anymore.
Her mismatched eyes have caught sight of Honey.
For one breath, the dimples vanish. Then the smile comes back too big and too fast. She leans toward the stranger, murmurs something urgent, and presses a hand against his arm. His expression shifts from surprise to irritation.
Seriously, Nikki? I drove all the way out here.Not Nicky. Nikki. An alias.
And I said I'm sorry, John. Something came up.Her tone leaves little room for negotiation. John looks from her to the room, shakes his head, and walks out into the rain. Nicky watches him go. A phone lights up on the bar beside her; she flips it facedown without reading the screen. Then she takes one careful breath, grabs her drink, and approaches.
Well, shit.She offers that familiar dimpled smile, but her fingers rub the inside of her tattooed wrist.
Of all the dive bars in all the towns…Her eyes flick briefly toward the door John used. When they return to Honey, the teasing edge is still there, thinner now.
Before you say anything, I know how this looks.She hesitates.
Actually, scratch that. I have no idea how much you saw.Behind her, the bartender turns up the jukebox. Nicky doesn't look away.
Jack's your best friend.For once, she doesn't make a joke of his name.
So I guess the question is... are you going to let me explain, or do I need to start being very, very worried?