In Strange Woods - Claire Cray Page 0,2

blearily at the screen, ignoring the piled-up notifications. Had he really only slept for three hours?

The shouts outside weren’t hostile, just rowdy. Grown men. Probably drunk. There was music coming faintly from the street below, tinny through the windowpane, indecipherable.

So there was a bar nearby. Good.

Outside, the air was so fresh it was almost astringent. A breeze had picked up, and thin points of fog were seeping over State Street from the seafront. James zipped up his jacket and put his hands in his pockets against the early November chill.

Four doors down, past a laundromat, an antique store and a marine supply shop, he found himself at Brooks Tavern. Through the two large windows he could see billiards, tables, and a couple dozen people, all dimly lit. He tugged his black stocking cap down and went inside.

Jimi Hendrix was howling ‘Voodoo Child’ from the speakers in the corners as he headed for the bar. Almost everyone was dressed in faded cotton sweatshirts, jeans or work pants, and boots. Blue collar types who worked on and around the water. The dark walls were cluttered with coastal ephemera—nautical maps, a giant mounted crab skeleton, photos of local boats and fisherman—and the whole place smelled like beer and the sea. James liked it immediately.

“Well, well,” a woman’s voice purred from behind the bar. “Look who’s here.”

James turned to look at the bartender, a darkly sexy rock ‘n’ roll type who was maybe a couple of years older than him. Her striking green eyes were expertly lined in black, and her sly, feisty expression implied that they were already on intimate terms. Pretty powerful way to flirt, he thought, though he wasn’t into women. “Hi. Jim Beam, please, neat. A double.”

The bartender reared back slightly, blinking her smoky eyes before her gaze narrowed. “That’s it, huh?”

James raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Oh, I’ll get right on that,” she muttered as she turned away. “My fucking pleasure.”

James watched her go, confused by her reaction. He’d been polite, hadn’t he? He drummed his fingers once on the bar top and turned slightly to examine the crowd. This time, he caught several people staring at him. Did they recognize him from the news? Or did they just like to gawk at outsiders? Who could say?

“You look different,” the bartender said curtly when she slid the drink in front of him.

So she did recognize him. Awesome. Great. Wearily rubbing his eyes, he declined to respond. No shit, he looked different. The media loved to use old magazine shots from the handful of times he’d modeled back when he was, like, nineteen. Now he was almost twenty-seven and haggard with grief.

“So? That’s it?”

James met her eyes again, perplexed. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Now he was irritated, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to get on the wrong side of what looked like the only bar in town. “I’m just here for the drink.”

“Oh.” A dark cloud rolled over her expression. “Then excuse me for bothering you.”

Jesus, what was her problem? James downed his whiskey in one huge, scorching gulp and slid a twenty across the bar. “Anyway, thanks.”

She snatched it up and didn’t offer change. “Yeah, bye.”

James stood up and stalked out of the bar, ignoring several stares.

Down at the other end of State Street was the Mini Mart, an old gas station and convenience store with a liquor shop attached. James strode past shelves of fishing tackle and junk food toward the scruffy skater guy at the register, who looked like he’d been happily stoned for several years.

“Hi,” James said. “Can I get a fifth of Jim Beam?”

“Well, hey, man!” The clerk beamed, his sleepy eyes crinkling into slits. “What is up?”

“Not much,” James managed to grate out. As a documentary photographer with a penchant for rural places, he was far more patient with small talk than the average New Yorker. But not right now. “Just buying some whiskey.”

“Comin’ right up.” The clerk merrily leaned toward him and held out a hand, lowering his voice to an exaggerated baritone. “ID, please?”

James readily offered his New York driver’s license, then frowned as the clerk burst out laughing.

“Just jokin’, dude! I know who you—wait, what?” The clerk abruptly stopped laughing and plucked the ID out of James’s hand, squinting at it. “James Worthington Crane? Man, this is one snazzy fake, but what’s it for?”

“It’s not fake,” James said irritably. “That’s my ID.”

“Man, I’m so confused right now…” The clerk leaned forward, peering closely at him, and then