The Bucket List

8 The Bucket List

"Alright then. Like I said. I'm here to apologize."

"Really." I can't keep the skepticism off my face. "You came all the way here. Outside of business hours. To apologize." I pause, letting the words hang between us. "For...?"

"My father's behavior. He is...a difficult man." He seems to realize what an understatement that is, because he combs a hand through his hair, aggravated. "To put it mildly."

I straighten with a frown. "Why are you apologizing? His behavior isn't your problem."

He regards me intently, at a loss. Until he says, "We had a deal."

"A deal," I repeat, swallowing down a wave of panic. He just said he wasn't here to fire me. "The contract, you mean."

"No. The party."

"Oh." I snort. "That's okay. I don't care about that. I'll still be there, at least in some capacity."

He's sulking, unsatisfied. "You were supposed to be my guest."

"And now I'm going to make your drinks. Which is nothing new. Seriously." I retrieve a glass from beneath the bar, grab a bottle of vodka, and pour. "You're the one doing me a favor, remember? The whole you can work for me to pay off your debts thing?"

That brings the ghost of a smile to his lips. He sits, some of his old swagger returning. "Yes. I do recall."

He drinks in silence while I work on my salad. Once the last drop slips down his throat, he casts me a long, searching look. "I imagine I am not the only man to which you owe a debt."

"Sorry," I say unconvincingly. I didn't catch that. But it sounded like you weren't minding the business that pays you."

"Amara—"

"If I tell you," I interrupt, heat flashing across my skin, "will you leave it the hell alone? You're like a bad penny. Always popping up, unannounced..."

"Yes," he agrees immediately, flashing a triumphant smile. "Tell me."

He clearly isn't used to hearing the word "no". I watch as he props a chin in his hand, waiting patiently for my life's story.

He's about to be sorely disappointed. "There's not much to tell," I say slowly. "I made a bad call. A really, really bad call."

I refill his glass. If I had any sense, I'd keep my mouth shut and kick him out for good measure.

"Hot Rod." I guess I don't have any sense. "That was the man you saw yesterday. I met him at the start of my senior year. He hung around the bar a lot. The social type, y'know. Everyone liked him."

"Including you."

"Including me. To a point." I grab a beer from the cooler to my left. "I practically lived here, even then. So we saw a lot of each other. And no, I don't know his real name," I tell him, sensing an interruption. "So don't ask. I barely know the guy."

He frowns but gestures for me to continue. Clearly, I've just thwarted his plans to have this shady figure tracked down and dealt with through less savory means.

"Anyway, he figured out my, uh...financial situation. And he told me he could help me out. If I helped him push some product here and there..." At his furrowed brow, I elaborate. "Coke, mostly. He said I could make good side money."

I drink quickly to drown my nerves and laugh—a mirthless, bitter sound. "And I did. But I felt like shit. Using this place," I sweep out an arm, "as his hotspot..."

I stare at my beer, wrestling with the guilt that threatens to sour the drink in my belly.

"What happened?" Nicholai asks after a time.