Angel Fire by Lisa Unger

Author:Lisa Unger [Unger, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-95310-0
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2011-08-08T20:00:00+00:00

The bar was dark and Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” blared from the jukebox in the corner behind the pool table. A few warped cues hung on the paneled wall next to a plastic Marlboro clock. It was like a million other dives in small towns across the country. Dirty and full of smoke, inhabited by overweight, flannel- and denim-clad men who looked like they knew no more familiar sight than their own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

She perched herself on a stool near the window and waited for the bartender to notice her, which she thought wouldn’t be long since all eyes had been on her from the moment she walked through the door. The bartender, a small woman with teased blond hair and an excess of blue eyeshadow, walked toward Lydia, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She wore tight, tapered acid-wash jeans, and a cut-up white sweatshirt over a black tank top, Flashdance-style. The eighties had been an ugly decade.

“What can I get for you, honey?”

“Guinness on tap?” Lydia asked hopefully.

“ ’Fraid not. Coors or Bud on tap. Or Pabst in a can.”

Of course. “Coors, then. Thanks.”

When the bartender returned with her beer, Lydia asked, “Do you know where I can find Mike Urquia?”

“I haven’t seen him tonight.” She glanced at the clock behind her. “He’s usually here by now.”

“Do you know where he works or where I can find him?”

“Are you with the police or something?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what do you want with him?”

Lydia worked hard to conceal her rising annoyance with the woman and put on her best charming smile. “It’s rather personal, but if you must know, I think he may be the father of my child.”

Lydia suppressed a belly laugh at the woman’s shocked expression. She was glad Jeffrey wasn’t here to see this; he always hated it when she fucked with innocent people. She could imagine him getting up and walking away so the girl couldn’t see his face.

“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know anything about him.”

“He’s here every night but you don’t know anything about him?”

“Look, I just serve beer to the customers. I don’t get involved in their personal lives. Are you sure you’re not with the police? You’re not from around here.”

“No, I’m not. Look, let me give you my number …” Before she could finish, she noticed the woman was looking past her to a man walking in the door.

“Hey, Mike,” called one of the barflies.

Lydia turned around to see a tall, dark-haired man with a mustache amble through the door. He was entirely clad in denim, with a sizable belly straining against the mother-of-pearl buttons on his shirt. Cowboy boots added about two inches to his already large frame. She didn’t get a good look at his eyes as he walked past her. He gave his hand in greeting to the man who had called his name.

“Hey, Rusty. How you doin’?” he asked amiably.

Rusty raised his glass. “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

“There’s your man, honey,” the bartender sang. Lydia ached to smack her, for no good reason, imagining that many people shared her feelings.

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