determined.
“The only thing I recall about her was her eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like that. The lightest blue I think I’ve ever seen. They looked eerie, really.”
Jensen paused. That could be Elizabeth—not that he’d describe her eyes as eerie , but rather mesmerizing .
“Actually, that’s not true,” Brian said. “I noticed the bartender had the same eyes—eerily pale. He also came over to the woman after the scuffle. I wonder if they are related or something.”
Jensen considered that for a moment, then promptly told himself it wasn’t likely. So the bartender had light blue eyes. What were the chances he was Elizabeth’s relative?
Jensen paced back and forth, watching the building as if gun-toting gang members were going to burst outside and shoot him down.
Getting shot down? Maybe that was what he was worried about—figuratively, rather than literally. And it wasn’t by the bartender, who likely wouldn’t have any idea who Elizabeth was, anyway. It was definitely the possibility of Elizabeth shooting him down.
“Just go home,” he muttered to himself, but then, instead of heading back to his truck, he paced again, watching the bar.
The neon lights were a beacon, just not the beacon they were designed to be, luring revelers in for a cold beer or a drink. He stared at the Miller Lite sign.
No, what lured him was the far-fetched idea that the bartender was somehow related to Elizabeth, all based on Brian’s offhanded comment that the bartender also had light blue eyes. It wasn’t as if Brian was the most observant person. In high school, Jill was forever getting annoyed with him for not noticing a new hairstyle or a brand-new outfit.
Okay, this argument was actually backing up his far-fetched theory. If Brian noticed, then the guy must have the same unusually pale eyes.
Jensen hesitated a moment longer, then breathed a deep sigh. What could it hurt just to walk in and see if the bartender reminded him of Elizabeth? And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to ask the guy if he knew her. Maybe Elizabeth was a regular here.
A wave of anticipation curled up his spine at the idea. Even if no one knew her, he could just hang out for a while and see if she showed.
Okay, he was apparently an official stalker. His determined march paused for just a second, then he continued on through the parking lot. He wasn’t stalking her, he was just looking for her. Because he wanted an explanation of her behavior. That was it.
He pushed open the bar door. Well, that and he did want to see her again.
The bar was relatively empty. A group of young men—obviously construction workers or laborers just off from work, given their rumpled t-shirts and dirt-layered jeans—played pool. Three other guys, clad in leather and jeans, sat at one of the round tables, not speaking, just sullenly drinking and watching the room as if they were waiting for something to happen. And at the bar was an old man, a cigarette dangling from his beard-surrounded lips.
A redhead puttered around behind the bar, wiping down glasses and occasionally saying something to the old man.
Jensen didn’t see this bartender with the pale eyes. Maybe it was the guy’s night off. Jensen considered just turning around, when a figure came out of the back room. The man was wearing an expensive gray shirt, obviously tailored to fit him, with an equally expensive pair of black pants. He didn’t look like he belonged here. Jensen could see that much, but from his angle by the door, he couldn’t see what his eyes looked like.
Slowly, as if he was casing the joint, Jensen walked around a few of the tables littering the floor, trying to get a look at the man’s eyes.
Okay, I’m now officially stalking a guy, too . This was pathetic.
But Jensen’s thoughts of pitiful behavior disappeared as the man turned to face the old man, also facing Jensen directly.
Jensen stopped. There was no doubt about it. This guy had to be related to
“The only thing I recall about her was her eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like that. The lightest blue I think I’ve ever seen. They looked eerie, really.”
Jensen paused. That could be Elizabeth—not that he’d describe her eyes as eerie , but rather mesmerizing .
“Actually, that’s not true,” Brian said. “I noticed the bartender had the same eyes—eerily pale. He also came over to the woman after the scuffle. I wonder if they are related or something.”
Jensen considered that for a moment, then promptly told himself it wasn’t likely. So the bartender had light blue eyes. What were the chances he was Elizabeth’s relative?
Jensen paced back and forth, watching the building as if gun-toting gang members were going to burst outside and shoot him down.
Getting shot down? Maybe that was what he was worried about—figuratively, rather than literally. And it wasn’t by the bartender, who likely wouldn’t have any idea who Elizabeth was, anyway. It was definitely the possibility of Elizabeth shooting him down.
“Just go home,” he muttered to himself, but then, instead of heading back to his truck, he paced again, watching the bar.
The neon lights were a beacon, just not the beacon they were designed to be, luring revelers in for a cold beer or a drink. He stared at the Miller Lite sign.
No, what lured him was the far-fetched idea that the bartender was somehow related to Elizabeth, all based on Brian’s offhanded comment that the bartender also had light blue eyes. It wasn’t as if Brian was the most observant person. In high school, Jill was forever getting annoyed with him for not noticing a new hairstyle or a brand-new outfit.
Okay, this argument was actually backing up his far-fetched theory. If Brian noticed, then the guy must have the same unusually pale eyes.
Jensen hesitated a moment longer, then breathed a deep sigh. What could it hurt just to walk in and see if the bartender reminded him of Elizabeth? And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to ask the guy if he knew her. Maybe Elizabeth was a regular here.
A wave of anticipation curled up his spine at the idea. Even if no one knew her, he could just hang out for a while and see if she showed.
Okay, he was apparently an official stalker. His determined march paused for just a second, then he continued on through the parking lot. He wasn’t stalking her, he was just looking for her. Because he wanted an explanation of her behavior. That was it.
He pushed open the bar door. Well, that and he did want to see her again.
The bar was relatively empty. A group of young men—obviously construction workers or laborers just off from work, given their rumpled t-shirts and dirt-layered jeans—played pool. Three other guys, clad in leather and jeans, sat at one of the round tables, not speaking, just sullenly drinking and watching the room as if they were waiting for something to happen. And at the bar was an old man, a cigarette dangling from his beard-surrounded lips.
A redhead puttered around behind the bar, wiping down glasses and occasionally saying something to the old man.
Jensen didn’t see this bartender with the pale eyes. Maybe it was the guy’s night off. Jensen considered just turning around, when a figure came out of the back room. The man was wearing an expensive gray shirt, obviously tailored to fit him, with an equally expensive pair of black pants. He didn’t look like he belonged here. Jensen could see that much, but from his angle by the door, he couldn’t see what his eyes looked like.
Slowly, as if he was casing the joint, Jensen walked around a few of the tables littering the floor, trying to get a look at the man’s eyes.
Okay, I’m now officially stalking a guy, too . This was pathetic.
But Jensen’s thoughts of pitiful behavior disappeared as the man turned to face the old man, also facing Jensen directly.
Jensen stopped. There was no doubt about it. This guy had to be related to
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