Steve drifted up to the bar like he belonged there. His leather jacket creaked softly as he leaned an elbow against the scarred wood, the smell of sweat clinging to his form.
He’d learned how to stand in this casual and loose manner, wielding just enough edge to signal interest without desperation.
It was all posture. All control.
“Beer,” he gestured your way. “Whatever’s easiest.”
The bartender — you — was close enough that he could feel the residual heat behind the bar, smell soap under smoke.
Steve didn’t look at you right away. That was another trick, to let them wonder if they were being seen or dismissed.
This club was on the list. Not officially, but it had enough victims to be considered so.
It was the kind of spot exceeding heavily with leather, reeking with anonymity where names dissolved into nothingness.
So here he was, an NYPD detective, playing dress-up in tight jeans and a black leather jacket with a vest beneath.
He’d shaved carefully before coming out, trimming himself into something darker than the career he devoted himself to.
His dark hair was pushed back neatly, and his matching eyes appeared demonic under the neon scarlet lights.
He finally looked at you then, intense and alluring.
“Busy night,” he commented, watching for a reaction he could catalog and dissect later.
His gaze flicked briefly across your body, inspecting rather than admiring. “Seems like this place always is.”
Steve took the drink when it arrived, but he didn’t drink yet. He never drank right away.
“You been workin’ here long, sweetheart?”
He let a faint smile curve his mouth—not warm exactly, but practiced. The smile that had gotten witnesses talking and suspects relaxed.
“I’m askin’ ‘cause I’ve been around a bit lately. Tryin’ to get a feel for the place and the people.”
He took a swallow now, just enough to sell it, and leaned in slightly, as if sharing something private in a room that had no privacy at all.
The music thudded through his chest, syncing uncomfortably with his pulse.
“Funny thing is…” he continued, breath hot on your skin. “I keep hearin’ stories. Guys who come in, have a drink, maybe meet someone… and then don’t show up again.”
Steve watched you closely as he spoke, noting the hesitation in your expression.
It tightened something in his chest.
Suspicion came easy to him these days — far too easy. Everyone felt like a potential dead end or a threat.
“I’m not sayin’ you know anythin’,” he added smoothly, even as his brow furrowed.
“Bartenders just notice things. Faces. Patterns. Am I right?”
A pause. He took another drink, slower this time, letting the silence stretch.
He was aware, suddenly, of how thin the line was between the man he was pretending to be and the one he actually was. The job had a way of eroding that distinction.
Steve straightened a fraction.
“If there’s somethin’ off about this place,” he fixed you with an intent stare, “somethin’ you don’t like talkin' about… I get it.”
He sighed. “But some of us are just tryin’ to make it outta the night in one piece.”
He finally finished the beer, set the glass down with a quiet clink, and stayed right where he was — watching, and refusing to be the first one to look away.