all his arms and legs, and he’s not going to lose them chasing wolves.
If Johnny heard me talking like that, he’d make me stop. Johnny could see things in our life that he thought were worth it. He believed in fate. Johnny could take the world as it was, he played by the rules and found meaning in them that was never there.
I want him back alive.
My head weighs down toward the bar, and I set my drink down before I drop it. Beer soaks into my sleeves as I lean forward, and it’s when I’m leaning forward, elbow-deep in mess, that I see the man next to me tip his head.
I turn to look, and find myself gazing into something that stops me dead. The eyes are breathtaking, my breath actually snags in my throat for a moment before I catch it: deep blue lights fanned out around a wide black pupil, dark lashes curling like fern leaves. He gestures toward my half-empty glass and then toward the bar with a star-white smile. An angel is trying to buy me a drink. I set down my glass and remind myself to mistrust him.
“Evening,” he says.
“Yes, it is.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Alcohol. It makes me drunk. You can get it almost anywhere.”
He grins, and takes my glass out from under me. The whisky swirls as he moves it under his nose, smelling it; little trickles of the drink cling for their lives to the sides of the glass.
“Scotch, single malt,” he says to the barman, raising his hand and pointing toward a bottle. I find there’s a new glass in front of me, cozying up to my old one.
“For you, sir?” says the barman.
“A red wine, please.”
“Oh, one of those,” I say, and the man laughs and raises his glass to me.
I raise my hands to him, flashing smooth skin.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
“You’re wasting your time, Adonis. See the pads?”
“Adonis?” He leans forward, laughing in puzzlement, and I see he’s deceived me already: apart from those eyes, his face is pretty normal. It’s perfectly nice, but nothing extraordinary, just a pleasant face with two searchlights in the middle.
I shrug, and sip the ice dregs of my old drink. “You know, you had me fooled. For a moment there I thought you looked like a Greek god.”
“You surprise me,” he says. “What is your name?”
“Look, you see my hands? See this?” I yank my sleeve up, and lay bare the scar that runs from wrist to elbow inside my left arm. “Thanks for the drink, but you may as well back out now while it’s still half polite.”
“What, because you’re from DORLA? Give me some credit,” he says.
“Credit for what?”
“Can’t I buy you a drink?” he says. There’s a little crinkle on his forehead. What anyone so beautiful thinks he’s doing pretending anything can disturb him I don’t know, but still—it’s not likely, really it’s not, but he might just be genuinely worried.
“Sure.”
“Your health,” he says, and raises his drink.
I push away my drink and pick up the one he’s bought me. Little coils and spirals twist around the ice cubes, and when I sip it, the heat spreads down my throat. It’s a better malt than the one I had before.
“Do people often do that?” he asks me.
“Do what?”
“Run for cover when they see you’re a non.”
I scowl at my drink. “What’s to run from? You all run things twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight. I can’t do a thing to you.”
He rubs his forehead thoughtfully. “That’s not quite true.” He isn’t contradicting me, just trying to think of the right answer. “There are stories about what happens in DORLA, most of them made up, of course, but it’s no joke if you arrest someone. And your conviction rate’s way higher than the regular judicial system.”
Regular, he said. It’s better than normal. “Maybe we’re just efficient.”
He laughs. “Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about work.”
“No.” I take another sip. “I came here to get drunk.”
“All on your
If Johnny heard me talking like that, he’d make me stop. Johnny could see things in our life that he thought were worth it. He believed in fate. Johnny could take the world as it was, he played by the rules and found meaning in them that was never there.
I want him back alive.
My head weighs down toward the bar, and I set my drink down before I drop it. Beer soaks into my sleeves as I lean forward, and it’s when I’m leaning forward, elbow-deep in mess, that I see the man next to me tip his head.
I turn to look, and find myself gazing into something that stops me dead. The eyes are breathtaking, my breath actually snags in my throat for a moment before I catch it: deep blue lights fanned out around a wide black pupil, dark lashes curling like fern leaves. He gestures toward my half-empty glass and then toward the bar with a star-white smile. An angel is trying to buy me a drink. I set down my glass and remind myself to mistrust him.
“Evening,” he says.
“Yes, it is.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Alcohol. It makes me drunk. You can get it almost anywhere.”
He grins, and takes my glass out from under me. The whisky swirls as he moves it under his nose, smelling it; little trickles of the drink cling for their lives to the sides of the glass.
“Scotch, single malt,” he says to the barman, raising his hand and pointing toward a bottle. I find there’s a new glass in front of me, cozying up to my old one.
“For you, sir?” says the barman.
“A red wine, please.”
“Oh, one of those,” I say, and the man laughs and raises his glass to me.
I raise my hands to him, flashing smooth skin.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
“You’re wasting your time, Adonis. See the pads?”
“Adonis?” He leans forward, laughing in puzzlement, and I see he’s deceived me already: apart from those eyes, his face is pretty normal. It’s perfectly nice, but nothing extraordinary, just a pleasant face with two searchlights in the middle.
I shrug, and sip the ice dregs of my old drink. “You know, you had me fooled. For a moment there I thought you looked like a Greek god.”
“You surprise me,” he says. “What is your name?”
“Look, you see my hands? See this?” I yank my sleeve up, and lay bare the scar that runs from wrist to elbow inside my left arm. “Thanks for the drink, but you may as well back out now while it’s still half polite.”
“What, because you’re from DORLA? Give me some credit,” he says.
“Credit for what?”
“Can’t I buy you a drink?” he says. There’s a little crinkle on his forehead. What anyone so beautiful thinks he’s doing pretending anything can disturb him I don’t know, but still—it’s not likely, really it’s not, but he might just be genuinely worried.
“Sure.”
“Your health,” he says, and raises his drink.
I push away my drink and pick up the one he’s bought me. Little coils and spirals twist around the ice cubes, and when I sip it, the heat spreads down my throat. It’s a better malt than the one I had before.
“Do people often do that?” he asks me.
“Do what?”
“Run for cover when they see you’re a non.”
I scowl at my drink. “What’s to run from? You all run things twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight. I can’t do a thing to you.”
He rubs his forehead thoughtfully. “That’s not quite true.” He isn’t contradicting me, just trying to think of the right answer. “There are stories about what happens in DORLA, most of them made up, of course, but it’s no joke if you arrest someone. And your conviction rate’s way higher than the regular judicial system.”
Regular, he said. It’s better than normal. “Maybe we’re just efficient.”
He laughs. “Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about work.”
“No.” I take another sip. “I came here to get drunk.”
“All on your
Similar Books
