Lloyd’s occupied that sweet spot between dive bar and shithole.

The twentysomethings that had taken over all the other good drinking spots in Hell’s Kitchen had so far stayed away from Lloyd’s, so no one was wearing suspenders, and the Waylon Jennings on the sound system was unironic.

The bar was sticky. The beer was cheap. The bottles of the good stuff on the top shelf were covered in an inch of dust.

But the best part was the television over the bar that only played ESPN. Never CNN.

So no one ever, EVER knew who he was here.

For all of those reasons, it was Jay’s favorite bar.

He shoved open the door with perhaps a bit more force than necessary, and the string holding the bell over the door chose that moment to give up the ghost. The bell fell down, bouncing off Jay’s head and shoulder to the floor.

Jesus. Really?

“What’d that bell do to you?” Lloyd asked from behind the bar.

“I don’t know,” Jay said, picking it up and setting it on the end of the bar. “What the hell did I do to it?”

“Same thing you did to that asshole on CNN?” Lloyd asked, and Jay glanced at the TV.

Of course. Of course tonight they’d changed the channel.

He looked over the dozen or so people in the bar and about three-quarters of them started clapping. The rest of them grumbled into their beer, shooting him sideways glances.

Seems about right, he thought. Consistent with polling numbers.

Or maybe the people clapping just liked seeing brawls on TV.

He lifted his hands to the people clapping, trying to shush them. When that didn’t work, he ignored them.

The Jameson shot and the Bud chaser were waiting for him at his seat at the corner of the bar.

“On me,” Lloyd said. “I been waiting a long time for someone to punch that asshole in the face. How’s the hand?”

Jay put his hand on the wooden bar, opening and closing his fist. “Hurts like hell,” he said. The knuckles were scraped up pretty good, not so much from the punch but from the fall.

What a clusterfuck. What a fucking clusterfuck.

“Here.” Lloyd set a plastic bag filled with ice next to the sweating bottle of Bud, and Jay put it over his knuckles, wincing at the sting. The Jameson’s went down nice and hot, and the Bud cooled it right off.

“Another?” Lloyd asked, not even raising his eyebrow. Another reason why this place was Jay’s favorite. When a man came in to get good and drunk, Lloyd didn’t pass judgment. He greased the wheels. Sometimes he put a glass of water on the bar next to the shot. Sometimes he put a cheeseburger down instead of a shot.

But no judgment.

The same again was set up in front of him.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Lloyd asked.

“You’re making conversation now?”

Lloyd shrugged. “Don’t have to. It’s just not every day my best customer punches a man out on national TV.”

Jay put the cold bottle to his face and closed his eyes. “I just couldn’t listen to him talk anymore,” he said.

“Bishop was saying some vile shit.”

He was. He was saying vile shit.

About Maggie.

And saying vile shit about Maggie was what that guy did. Bishop’s whole fucking reason for being was to split such razor-thin hairs, to use all this misogynistic language without actually ever calling her a slut. Or a bitch. This dog-whistle bullshit.

Most days he could handle it. Most days…

Just not today, it would seem.

“Is he gonna press charges?” Lloyd asked.

Jay laughed. “No. But he’s probably going to sue the fuck out of me.” The Jameson went down smooth as silk again, and he thought maybe he should put the brakes on this night. He was feeling wild and reckless.

He didn’t need to be drunk on top of it.

Maggie, he thought. And then again. Just her name.

Maggie.

Years ago, just thinking her name was a spell, and it would conjure up images of her hair and the way sunlight would turn it to fire. He’d lose valuable working minutes to long contemplations of a joke she’d made in some meeting or class. The length of her legs when she put on a skirt.

The way she looked at her wedding.

Thinking her name always led him down a rabbit hole of memories. Sly little fantasies. Dark dreams that did him no good.

He’d trained himself to stop. To just think her name and nothing else. Not her eyes, the shape of her hands. Her laugh after a glass of wine. It took about twenty years, but he’d gotten pretty good at it.

Maggie. Full stop.

“Hungry?” Lloyd asked.

“No.”

“Eat anyway.”

Jay laughed and rubbed a hand over his beard and up into his hair. He needed a haircut. Maggie had been on him for days about it, but things had just been so busy.

He had the sneaking suspicion he was going to have all the time in the world now. Nothing but haircuts and day drinking.

“Steak and a Caesar salad.”

‘We don’t have a fucking Caesar salad,” Lloyd said. “And we don’t have steak. That joke is stupid. Stop wanting shit you can’t have.”

Jay laughed. A sharp hard bark.

If only.

“Burger, then.”

Lloyd went to go yell at the cook in the back.

Jay’s phone was in a constant state of buzz, and he took it out of his pocket in order to turn it off. He tried not to see, but the screen full of messages was impossible to ignore.

The clip was going viral. Of course.

Every producer he’d worked with for the last twenty years was trying to get him on their show.

All of which he’d expected. The second he’d curled his hand into a fist he’d known what would happen. He’d done it anyway. After all these months on the campaign trail, he’d been unable to stop it.

At the top of his phone’s battered screen was a text from Dad.

That’s my boy.

For the first time all night, Jay smiled.

Thanks Dad, he typed back. I’ll call you tomorrow.

He pressed the off button and then set his dark phone facedown on the bar.

The TV above the bar was still on CNN, and Anderson Cooper was currently showing the clip of the Wolf Blitzer roundtable. Jay’d been a pundit on talk shows for years. Political analyst. A voice from the left. He gave good sound bites. Since he’d become Maggie’s campaign manager, he didn’t go on as much. But he’d made an effort for this Wolf Blitzer thing.

Because of Bishop.

Because someone had to shut that asshole down. Put him in his place. Roll him like a bad dog.

At the time, with his fist meeting Bishop’s previously unbroken nose, he’d felt pretty good about it. He still did. But the repercussions were coming.

The producers had managed to convince Bishop not to press charges. Without a doubt the weasel was going to sue, but assault charges were the least of Jay’s concerns.

“Can we turn this off?” he asked. His face was all over the screen, his fraying temper so plain it was embarrassing. He looked like a goddamn cartoon with smoke coming out of his ears.

But the superior look on Bishop’s face still had him smoldering.

He was going to be sued. He’d undoubtedly lose his job.

Still not what he was worried about.

Maggie.

Full stop.

On the screen Bishop was really winding up, his smug face hitting optimum smug, and Jay already knew how this ended, and so he stood up, grabbed the remote from behind the bar, and changed the channel.

There were a few grumbles from the crowd gathered there, but he turned on ESPN and more people were appeased than not.

He was preoccupied by his beer and his television, and since he’d taken care of the bell over the door there was no warning.

Rick, in a black suit, followed by Jack and Grey, swept into the bar.

“Oh, shit,” Jay muttered and pushed the shot glass forward to Lloyd so he could refill it.

“What the fuck is going on?” Lloyd asked, pouring a stream of Jameson’s while watching the three bodyguards take positions around the room.

“My boss is here,” Jay said and threw back the whiskey.

Maggie.