His to Steal

Ch. 7: Watcher

I have more money than I could ever need stashed away.

Tonight, I'm sitting at a bar, attempting to chase away all my worries with a drink or two. And in my slightly tipsy haze, I keep coming back to one thought: why am I worrying so much about this when Sutton could give a shit's care less about me? She hasn't attempted to contact me since I left.

Because you told her not to, asshole.

Yeah, well. I guess I'd hoped that she would at least try to find me on social media. But that was foolish of me; how could I expect her to read my mind? Plus, I was really fucking cruel to her the day I left. I might as well have told her she was dead to me.

I toss back the rest of my whiskey and the thunk of the empty glass on the bar top alerts the bartender that I'm in need of another. As he pours me another glass, a roar of raucous laughter erupts from the other end of the bar, and a voice from the center of the crowd rings out above the noise.

"Fuck yeah, I'm ready. I've been ready," he says, a hint of a slur laced in his tone.

His voice sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it. The bartender makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat as he flings his hand towel over his shoulder.

I arch a brow at him and cock my head to the side. "They on your nerves too?"

He dips his chin and says, "You could say that mate. They're in here every fucking Thursday night, talking about how 'killer' their weekends are gonna be at their clubs, and how the goods they're buying and selling are 'primo.' Whatever the fuck that means."

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he starts to turn away.

My nostrils flare and I hiss, "Wait, what? What goods?"

"I don't know what the hell they're peddling. Guns or black-market drugs, probably. It's all they've been talking about for the past few weeks. They're just loud as hell. Don't they know that shit's dangerous?"

The bartender shakes his head and continues cleaning the bar, but I'm not finished asking questions.

"They haven't said anything at all in front of you?"

"Nah, they clam up when I come around, and they don't ever holler about details. If I were the owner of this place, I'd kick 'em out on their asses."

Pulling my baseball cap lower on my forehead, I scoot down a few stools so I can hear better. I concentrate on the amber liquid in my glass and pretend to be lost in thought, waiting for one of them to say something else.

They talk in lower tones, a wave of laughter rising and falling every few minutes, but there are no more loud outbursts. One by one, the little clump of douchebags dissipates and there are only three voices left.

I don't risk a glance in their direction because I don't want to call attention to the fact that I am most definitely eavesdropping.

"When is it going to go down?" one of them finally asks.

"Oh, not for at least two months," the slurring man answers. "I wish it could be sooner. I'd like to go ahead and get it done, but supposedly we have more 'prep' to do."

"I didn't know something like that required a lot of 'prep,'" the deeper voice says.

"Well, yeah, but the more ready we are, the safer it'll be."

What will be safer?

"I can't believe you're involved in something so fucking shady," the man with the deeper voice says, his voice raised as he laughs out loud.