I found the slip of paper under my windshield wiper—a small ripping from a notebook with an address scribbled across it in navy blue ink. I knew who it was from.
The bar was on the East Side, but the building was surprisingly well-maintained. The bricks looked as though they had been cleaned recently, and a smooth slab of wood next to the door had been engraved with The Barre. I didn’t understand the name until I stepped inside.
The wood floors were smooth and shiny, and mirrors covered one entire wall, a wooden bar running the length of it. At some point in its history, the building had been a ballet studio. I’d taken ballet for a few years as a kid, but I didn’t have a talent for it. I quit before high school and became a cheerleader instead. No one yelled at you about keeping your toes pointed and the shape of your arms in cheerleading. They just told you to smile more.
One of the bartenders—a short, burly man with a beard and a flannel shirt opened over a white tank top—waved me over when I walked in.
“It’s seat yourself, but two of our waitresses called in sick today, so you have to order at the bar. What can I get for you?”
I looked around for a menu, and the man handed me one from under the bar. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you’d been in here before. You look familiar.”
“No. This is my first time,” I said, smiling at him and then turning my attention to the menu.
He reached across the bar and flipped the page for me, his stout finger pointing to a seafood pasta dish. “This is my favorite. It goes great with any of our white wines.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, not wanting to tell him I hated shrimp, and that I had no intention of ordering any food. There was no reason to give Zico the idea that this was a date.
After our last encounter, I had spent the next day in a fog. Once again, the sex had been amazing, but once again, I had to question what it meant—about me. What did that say about me as a person? What kind of person finds it exciting when a mafia member breaks into their house, surprises them as they get home from work, and then has sex with them and just leaves? I had to assume it wasn’t a normal person. I had to assume there was something fundamentally wrong with me. How could I look at Zico and see anything redeeming about him?
“See anything you want?” the bartender asked, leaning over the bar, peeking at my menu. Though he was motioning to the menu, I couldn’t help but feel that he was hinting at something more. He all but winked at me when I looked up at him.
“Just a whiskey sour,” I said, deciding to go with my usual rather than find something new.
“So, you’re a whiskey girl?” a voice said into my ear.
I jumped so hard my knee hit the underside of the bar. “Dammit, Zico,” I said, reaching down to rub my knee. “Couldn’t you ever just walk up and say hi? Does everything have to be a surprise?”
He chuckled. “Sorry. So, you like whiskey?”
I nodded, gesturing to the bartender making me my drink. “Apparently.”
“I can’t stand the stuff,” he said, screwing up his mouth. “Too warm. I want something with some bite.”
He winked at me, and I felt my cheeks blush. I turned away from him, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“You obviously found my note.”
I sighed. “Yes, and once again, can’t you ever just do anything the normal way? You have my phone number. Is it really necessary to leave me clandestine notes under my windshield wiper?”
“You want to take the fun out of everything.”
The bartender returned and slid me my drink, his eyes flashing hesitantly to Zico. “What can I get you?”
“Just a water,” Zico said.
“A water?” I asked.
He smiled. “I never drink while I’m working.”
“Oh, so this is business? It’s very difficult to tell with you.”
He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. “When it’s pleasure, you’ll know.”
I shivered, and turned, taking a seat at a table at the back of the bar in front of the wall of mirrors. A few seconds later, Zico followed.
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.
He laughed. “Yeah. Once or twice.”
“What’s so funny?”
“My family owns this bar.”
“Seriously?” I didn’t want to sound impressed, but I was. Compared to the cigar shop, this bar was a five-star establishment.
“It has a second floor, which is a great space for conducting business, and I get free drinks whenever I want.”
“Except for now,” I said, pointing to his water.
“Water is a drink, and this was free.”
I smiled and shook my head. I’d walked into the bar with every intention of getting immediately down to business, but somehow Zico had distracted me. He made me lose my train of thought, he constantly surprised me, and he made me laugh when I didn’t want to laugh.
“We need to focus,” I said. “I’ve been trying to keep track of Gary’s drop-offs and collections, but so far there is no clear pattern. Either he does it randomly, or the cycle is longer than a week. It could even be monthly.”
“That’s annoying.”
I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, but I’m going to keep an eye on him, and if there is a pattern, we’ll find it.”
“We,” he said.
“What?”
“You said ‘we’ and I liked it. It made us sound like a crime-fighting duo,” he said, smiling at me.
I laughed. “You are the last person I’d ask to join my crime-fighting duo. The only reason we are even trying to catch a criminal is because he was doing illegal work for you in the first place. I think promoting crime immediately takes you out of the running for being a crime fighter.”
“Drats,” he said, snapping his fingers and pulling his mouth to the side, a look of mock disappointment in his eyes. Just as quickly his features shifted back to normal and he continued talking about the plan. “You keep doing the reconnaissance work, and when you have the information we need, I can plant someone at one of his exchange locations, and they can take him out.”
“Take him out?” I asked though I knew what he meant.
“Yeah, like on a date. Maybe to dinner and a movie,” he said.
I lightly punched his arm, and he laughed.
“Yeah, I can get someone to take him out. One shot and he’d be done. He wouldn’t even see it coming. Really, it’s a kindness when you think about it. Most people will grow old and slowly watch themselves wither away to nothing. Having a bullet end it all in an instant while you’re still young? That has to be better than the alternative.”
I shook my head. “I know about seven billion people who would disagree with you. Nobody wants to be murdered, and nobody is going to be murdered. We aren’t going to take Gary out—on a date or otherwise,” I said, making sure I was specific. Zico seemed like the kind of person who would have a good time weaseling his way through loopholes.
“So, what are we going to do with him?”
“We’re going to alert the police to where he is going to be, he’ll get caught in the act, and then he’ll be arrested. Boom. Justice. It will be that easy,” I replied.
Zico rolled his eyes. “You are naïve.”
I wanted to slap him again, but refrained, instead just tossing him a dirty look, my eyes narrowed. “I am not. I just believe in our justice system. Gary may be a dirty cop, but they aren’t all like that.”
“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Naiveté at its finest,” he said, shaking his head and taking the first drink of his water.
It reminded me of my own drink, and I tipped it back, wrinkling my nose at the sourness. “Your bartender sort of sucks,” I said. “There is not near enough whiskey in here.”
Zico immediately stood up, walked behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and came back to the table. “May I?” he asked, resting the neck of the bottle on his wrist and beginning to tip it into my glass.
“You may,” I replied, finding myself feeling wooed, despite Zico having already made it clear that this was a business meeting.
He poured a generous splash of whiskey in the glass, and I stirred it before taking a drink. I gave him a thumbs up. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Just then a group of eight college-aged kids poured into the bar; the four girls followed the guys in, their arms looped together, giggling incessantly. The guys all wore pastel-colored shorts and were swapping stories of the many times they’d woken up on the sidewalk after a night of heavy drinking.
Zico groaned. “The worst part about having the nicest bar on the East Side is that people actually come to it. I’m not in the mood to listen to this dickhead mating ritual. Do you want to go upstairs?”
I hesitated. Did I? The last time I’d gone into a back room with Zico I’d been blackmailed into giving him a blowjob. Though, of course, in terms of sexual favors, we were way past that by now.
I glanced up at the bar and noticed one of the pastel college boys was leaning with his back against the bar, staring at me. When we met eyes, he winked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Zico grabbed my drink and the bottle of whiskey, and I followed him around the bar, down a hallway, and up a steep flight of rickety stairs. He opened a heavy wooden door, and I don’t know what I had been expecting the room to look like, but I definitely hadn’t been expecting the room that was before me. It made my apartment look like a dump.
An open concept kitchen occupied the back corner. Every appliance was stainless steel, and the countertops looked like actual white granite. A bar with matching granite and tall, metal barstools separated the kitchen from a living room area, which came complete with a plush gray sofa, matching armchair, and a glass coffee table. Thick oriental rugs filled the living room and the dining room, which had a dark-stained wooden table with matching chairs. Huge windows that ran nearly from floor to ceiling spanned one wall, flooding the room with daylight.
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“In this dump?” Zico said, setting my drink and the bottle of whiskey down on a coaster. When he turned around and saw my mouth hanging open, he laughed. “I’m just kidding. But no, this isn’t where I live. It’s nice though, right?”
I nodded.
“We like to have these crash pads all over town, just in case.”
“Crash pads,” I repeated. Most of the time, Zico’s everyday life sounded like the plot of a movie. I couldn’t barely wrap my head around it. He had crash pads. This magnificently decorated loft, which could be rented out for thousands of dollars per month, was nothing more than a crash pad. What must his actual house look like?
He lowered himself onto the couch, patting the cushion next to him. “So, where were we?”
I sat down at the opposite end of the couch. “I believe you were marveling at my naiveté.”
“Ah, yes. I was.”
“I’m naïve because I believe there are good cops?”
“No, you’re naïve because you believe there is true justice,” he responded.
“You don’t think there is?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “If there is, I don’t think it exists in our legal system.”
“You’re a cynic.”
He smiled. “Then we balance each other out.”
I sighed.
“Seriously,” he said, his eyes widening and playful smile disappearing. “I think we do. I have a tendency to be kind of a hot head—”
I made a fake shocked face, but Zico ignored it and continued.
“—but you are much more disciplined. You are more patient, and I think your plan will probably work, even if I find it a little boring.”
He was actually being complimentary? I couldn’t believe it. I hesitated for a minute, waiting for the catch, but he seemed to be done speaking. Finally, I thanked him.
“You’re welcome.” He picked up the bottle of whiskey and leaned back into the couch. “Now that business is done…” He took a big drink from the bottle, wiped his mouth, and scooted closer to me on the couch.
I held my hands up, pushing against his chest. “Have you ever considered for a second that maybe it would be nice if we got to know each other a little bit better?” I asked.
He smiled, and pushed against my hands with his chest, trying to get closer to me. “Oh, we know each other very well.”
“I mean,” I said, pushing him hard enough that he relaxed back into his cushion on the couch, rolling his eyes, “like personally. For instance, where were you born? What’s your middle name? Things like that.”
He looked annoyed, but then I watched a lopsided smile creep across his face. He turned to me. “Where were you born?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, unsure what his angle was, but I knew he had one. “Dodge City, KS. What about you?”
“Born and raised right here in the city,” he said.
Then, suddenly, he reached out and unbuttoned my jeans.
“Hey!”
“This way it’s fair,” he said. “We both get what we want.”
“So, this is like strip twenty questions?” I asked, shooing his hands away from my crotch.
“Exactly.”
I looked at him for a long time. I could leave. I could just turn him down, zip my pants back up, and walk out. But something about the hopeful look in his eyes, the way the sun was cutting across his jawline, made me stay. I reached out and unzipped his jeans.
“You answered a question, too,” I said.
His eyes widened in excitement. “What’s your middle name?”
“Marie. You?”
He was already sliding my jeans down my legs as he answered, “Matteo.”
I pulled his shirt over his head, taking a moment to marvel at the perfectness that was his body.
By the time he learned that I’d had two rabbits named Jaq and Gus Gus while I was growing up, and I learned that the only pet he ever had was a turtle he found in an alley behind his house when he was twelve, we were both completely naked.
His breathing was heavy as he reached out to twist a lock of my blonde hair around his finger. “Is this your natural hair color?” he asked.
I nodded, and stared at him, wondering what he was going to do next. I didn’t have another clothing item I could remove. Slowly, he slid closer to me on the couch and placed his hand over me. Before I could even register what was happening, he slipped a finger inside of me. I released a sigh. I was wracking my brain for a question to ask him, but Zico spoke before I could.
“Did you always want to be a cop?” he asked, his finger slipping in and out of me.
Again, I nodded. “Since I…was a little girl…” I said, my breathing becoming erratic.
He slipped a second finger inside of me, and I arched my back, moaning. Zico moved closer to me, his fingers still pumping me, and pressed his lips to my ear.
“Do you like what I’m doing to you right now?” he whispered.
Before I could answer, he slipped a third finger inside of me, and my brain turned to mush. He was massaging me from the inside, and I felt like Jell-O in his very skilled hands. He used his thumb to massage my nub, and my hips began bucking against his hand. I knew I was going to finish soon, so I reached over and ran my hand up his thigh, higher and higher, until I found him, already hard and ready. Zico moaned as I took him in my hand, and slid my fingers up and down him.
Soon, we were both working furiously at one another, writhing under each other’s touch, our bodies quickly losing control. I was on the edge, quickly reaching the point of climax when he slipped his pinkie inside of me, and my body exploded. Somehow, even while my body was clenching at his fingers, and my muscles were contracting and releasing in rhythmic waves, my hand kept moving on him.
Soon after, Zico groaned, and I felt him twitch with pleasure in my hand. I continued rubbing him until he laid his head back on the couch and his breathing became normal. We both laid there, pleased and lazy, until Zico broke our delirious silence.
“How was that for getting to know one another?”
Despite myself, I laughed and admitted the truth. “It was amazing.”