Escaping Death

Chapter 45

Tate

"Thought you were dead," a mountain of a bouncer with the name Ralph embroidered on his shirt stares down at Solana expectantly from his stool in front of the club doors.

"The hell you did. You going to let me in or what?" She jabs a pointed finger at the center of his chest which is eye level with her.

"You?" He considers her for a moment with a discerning glare before his tough-guy bouncer facade fades with an affectionate smile. "Always. Want me to get rid of your shadow?" Ralph nods towards me crossing his arms over his expansive chest like any of his posturing could intimidate me.

Solana turns to look at me and with a wicked glint in my eye I dare her to tell him to get rid of me. We both know I'm not going anywhere, but I see her weighing how entertaining it would be for her to watch me take down Wreck-it-Ralph the 6'9, 350-pound bouncer.

"Nah, not this one." She says with a sly grin letting Ralph off the hook and just like that he ushers us past him and through the main doors.

It's Friday night and the club is packed to the brim with party-goers looking to get drunk, get lucky, or both. Solana breezes through the throngs of people like she owns the place, which in a way she does. Not just because her parents own the club, but because she has a vested interest in the club and its employees.

She carries herself with an ease here that she doesn't back at the pack house, and no one questions her when she hops the bar and gets right to work clearing glasses and pouring new shots. I take a seat on a stool in the center of the bar that way no matter where she is behind the bar I'm never more than 20 or so feet away from her.

"Good to see you, Shae," one of the male bartenders smiles at her a little too broadly for my liking. "We've missed you."

"Yeah it looks like it, the bar is a mess." She responds kindly whilst strategically making it clear that she's here to work, not flirt with the staff.

One by one the bartenders rotate around to say hi and welcome her back. Some are more flirtatious than others, but she dismisses them all the same.

"What's your poison?" She finally asks me after cleaning and organizing everything to her liking.

"My tastes are probably more singular than what you stock here."

"Try me." Of course she doesn't back down.

"Blackstrap." It's vague enough to test her because either she'll know exactly what I'm talking about or she'll mistake it for a cocktail or brand.

She rolls her lips and taps her pointer finger to them, studying me with keen interest. Then she gets to work. I watch as she grabs a bottle off the shelf behind the bar, no search needed – she knew exactly what she wanted and where to find it. Ice clatters into a tall, cylindrical glass followed by liquid from two different bottles.

She stirs the drink with a long, thin spoon and pops a lime on the rim of the glass before placing it neatly in front of me looking every ounce as proud of herself.

"An iced tea?" I question her.

Her lips purse and she cocks her head to the side unamused. "Dark and Stormy," she pushes the drink closer to me as if I needed the encouragement. "Just like you," she rolls her lips in a weak attempt to bite back her laughter.

"Laughing at the guy who smuggled you out of lockdown, are we?"

The eye roll she gives me makes my heart stutter, I hardly get to see playful, carefree Solana. Usually it's been angry, brooding Solana, or sarcastic, hurting Solana.