Zery’s words came back to me. If I was really going to “do this human thing” it would make sense for me to date, at least some. I hadn’t had anything more than passing contact with a man since my son’s father. I angled my face, away from Peter.
Michael. I hadn’t thought of him in years. In a way, he was as responsible for me leaving the tribe as the loss of our son and my subsequent betrayal by the Amazons. I’d made the mistake of knowing him, and not just in the biblical sense. He’d been a tattoo artist. We’d met at a rally-kind of a conference for artists. He’d had a gift. When I first saw pictures of his work, I thought another Amazon was at the event. I’d searched him out, sure Michael was some twist on an Amazon name I didn’t recognize, but when I met him, there’d been no mistaking him for a woman-not even a warrior.
I’d been a goner on the spot.
I smiled, a sad twist of my lips. I had a folder with pictures of his work in it somewhere. I’d kept it, but had shoved it deep in a trunk that I never opened. Maybe it was time I dug it out and purged one more ghost from my past.
“Coffee?” Peter held out a fresh mug.
I reached up to take it, but as my fingers brushed his, realization hit me. I knew why Peter’s art had tweaked at me so. Why I’d thought it was familiar.
It reminded me of Michael. Peter reminded me of Michael.
The coffee he’d released to my grip fell to the floor, splattering up both of our legs.
Neither of us jumped. We both just stood there, staring.
I didn’t ask Peter if he knew Michael, didn’t even apologize for the spill. Just turned and walked out of the cafeteria and hightailed it to my truck and then to the bar. He probably thought I’d lost my mind. I was beginning to suspect it myself.
Michael had been from somewhere in Tennessee and had the accent to prove it. From what Peter had told me, he’d spent most of his life in Chicago. Worlds apart. There was, of course, the possibility they were cousins or some other relation, but it was highly unlikely. Much more likely, there was a slight similarity in style and the biggest thing the pair had in common was the attraction I felt for both. After Michael, that was scary.
When I’d been with Michael, I’d come close to breaking a steadfast Amazon rule. I’d come close to giving him my heart. I’d barely walked away. Without his knowledge, I’d kept up with him through online bulletin boards and occasionally an email to mutual tattoo acquaintances. Two years after the rally, a year and three months after the birth and death of our son, Michael had died too. Some freak dog attack.
Still mourning the loss of my son and my tribe, his death had hit me hard-and the worst part was I couldn’t show it to anyone, couldn’t even admit I knew about it. Scandalized as Mother and Bubbe had been when I left the tribe, if I’d admitted to following what was happening with Michael…I smacked the steering wheel of my truck with the palm of my hand.
Liar. It wasn’t Bubbe and Mother who had stopped me from publicly admitting my sorrow. It was me. I hadn’t been ready to face that I had felt a connection to a man. It was just wrong-against everything I’d been brought up to believe.
I’d heard humans talk about Catholic guilt, but it had nothing on Amazon guilt. It was amazing how easily you could say things with your mouth, even believe them with your brain…but your heart, your gut…those two were a lot harder to convince.
I pulled onto Frances Street and found a rare parking spot off street. The bar, actually more of a tavern, opened at eleven for lunch. It was five after. My timing was perfect. I went in and sat at the counter. A bartender, female and somewhere in her fifties, took my order-fried cheese curds and a burger. Major benefit of being an Amazon, no need to watch calorie intake.
When she brought my water, I added a local microbrew they had on tap to my order. It would take a lot of alcohol to affect me, but maybe it would take the edge off my nerves. Besides, it gave me another chance to chat with the bartender.
When she came back, I already had a twenty lying on the bar in front of me. I motioned to the bill. “You can ring me out if you like.”
She cocked a brow. “You in a hurry?”
I took a sip of the ale. “No, but I thought you might get busy. Might as well settle up now.”
She shrugged and went to the cash register.
A few seconds later she was back, my change in hand. “You need anything else, just holler.” She started to turn, but I held up a hand.
“Actually, I was hoping to run into someone here. A boy my niece used to date. Great kid.”
She waited, a noncommittal look on her face. “What’s his name?”
“Tim.” It was all Dana had told me, because it was all she knew-I had asked for a last name. “Works part-time, I think, bartending?”
“Common name.” The woman’s eyes drifted to the door, then jerked back to me. “But we don’t have anyone by it on the payroll.”
“Really?” Dana hadn’t lied to me. She’d had no reason to. “I was pretty sure she said he worked here.”
“A lot of bars around here. She must have been confused.”
“Could be.” I held her gaze. She was lying to me. I didn’t know why, but she was. I wasn’t one to play polite and just let her walk away. “But I don’t think so.”
The door to the bar opened and a group of state workers, easily identifiable by badges and practical shoes, filed in. She made a move to grab a stack of menus. I placed my hand over hers to stop her.
“What gives?”
She sighed, the wrinkles around her eyes relaxing with the breath. “He comes in sometimes. Works a few hours when we’re busy and he needs the cash. I’m a small business owner, trying to eke out a living. Someone’s willing to work for tips-who am I to send him away? You know?”
I did know. I removed my hand and finished my beer.
A man willing to work for just tips-even a young man. That was odd-Amazon-like, even. Cash-only jobs were our mainstay. Anyone’s mainstay who wanted to fly under the radar.
What was up with Dana’s Tim? What was he hiding or hiding from?
He, just like this bar, was a common thread connecting the dead girls and life outside the Amazon camp. I thought of Dana, her hand on her belly and her face alight with joy. The burger I’d just eaten hardened to stone.
I slipped my messenger bag over my head and turned to leave.
“Enjoy your lunch?”
I spun. Detective Reynolds stared at me over crossed arms.
I adjusted my bag so it sat in the small of my back, then smiled. “Hit the spot. What about you? What brings you here? You aren’t following me, are you?” I tried to sound flirty, but failed miserably.
“Should I be?”
Behind him a blond man watched us with interest. I could tell by the travel-worn suits they were together.
“Long drive to stalk one lone tattoo artist, but…whatever.” I dug another five out of my bag and slipped it under my beer mug. I hoped the extra tip would convince the barkeep I was on her side and maybe keep her from telling Detective Reynolds too much about our conversation-in case he asked.
He raised a brow. “Big tipper.”
Ignoring the jibe, I nodded to his partner and made for the door. I only got a few feet.
“You going to be around this afternoon?”
I stopped but didn’t turn. “Should be.”
“Try. I think we might need to have another chat.”
Goody. I couldn’t wait.
Chapter Fifteen
Once on the street I let out a breath. Just what I needed, Detective Reynolds poking around the shop while Zery and company were doing whatever the hell they would be doing today. Maybe if I were lucky, they’d have brought up a team of horses and be jousting or something.
That would be fun to explain.
Maybe I’d just go for the truth. Detective Reynolds, meet my old friend Zery, the Amazon Queen. I know she looks thirty, but really she’s pushed past ninety. And don’t mind Bubbe over there in the corner-she’s just calling up a serpent to guard her prized collections of animal parts and hunks of stone. And Mother? She wouldn’t hurt anyone with that broadsword-at least not today. After all, it isn’t that “time of the month” just yet.