Ally's Revenge (Part 1 complete, Part 2 in progress)

Chapter 4

*Picture: Google Image search, Ian Somerhalder as Luke*

Chapter 4

Ally

I'm so happy it's not too crowded tonight. I can't stand having to pretend I enjoy the crowd. I walk over to my usual spot and call Grant over.

"Hey sweetie! Your running a little late tonight."

I prentend not to notice he's looking down my top as he says this. "Hi Grant. Has my dad stopped by already?"

"Yes honey, I think he's on to us. Just like last Thursday, at ten after five he ran out of here."

"Oh well, he can't avoid me forever..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man enter the bar, scan the crowd and stare right at me, probably thinking of coming over to buy me a drink or something. He has the look of a Calvin Kline underwear model. Strong jaw, perfect nose, perfect teeth, brown eyes, brown hair, tall with a medium build. I've found these are usually the kind of guys who think they can flash a smile and the panties will just fall to the floor.

Oh great, here he comes...now I have to pretend I'm interested in the mindless chatter that's sure to follow.

He walks over to behind my stool, places his hand on the bar, and leans in to where he's about six inches from the side of my face. I can smell he's been smoking pot and drinking some sort of cheap beer. Upon closer look, I see acne scars and a homemade or prison tattoo under his collar. He is probably trying to hide that with his Ralph Lauren polo shirt collar pulled up straight instead of folded over, or maybe he's such a douche he actually thinks the collar makes him look cool.

"Hi there Red. My names Luke. What you drinking tonight? Your cup seems empty."

Red...really? Like I've never heard that before. Just as I suspected: extreme douche bag!

"Allison. Not Red." I don't even bother to look at him, though I can see his smile fade and turn into a sly grin in my peripheral.

"Oh a feisty one! Lukey likey!"

Oh Lord and he speaks in third person! There's not enough liquor in the world for me to go home with this guy.

"Excuse me, please." I make my way across the bar, past the pool tables, towards the bathroom. Maybe if I stay in here for a few minutes he will move on to the next victim. I wonder how often those lines actually work. Often enough for him to try to use it on me, obviously.

I check my reflection in the enormous, cracked, and dirty mirror. My hair is a wild mess of loose curls and I have bags under my eyes. I'm still wearing my work clothes, which consist of black pants, black top, and black on black low-top converse. I can't see why he would come up to me when there's a table of 4 20-somethings drinking Smirnoff wine coolers and laughing at the whispers they keep passing to each other. Maybe he already tried them and they turned him down too? I doubt it though. They look like the kind of girls that a cheesy pick-up line and an offer to buy a drink would have them stripping their clothes on the way to the car.

After about 5 minutes I decide its probably safe to leave the bathroom, but to my utter disappointment, "Lukey" is now sitting in my stool.

Wow! Dude is presistant!

"Well, Allison, I thought you'd left without saying goodbye! I was heartbroken!" Luke says as he flashes me a grin that almost makes him attractive; if he wouldn't have already opened his mouth.

"I'm sure you'll be just fine. Excuse me, I'm on my way home..."

"Oh, is that an invitation to join you?" Luke wiggles his eyebrows up and down and licks his lips as he says this.

If looks could kill, Lukey would be a corpse.

I look him directly in the eye and say "No."

I pull out three dollars for a tip and tell Grant I'll see him next week. As I'm walking towards the door, I glance back to see a man sitting at the back corner booth. I could have swore he was staring at me, but maybe he was just waiting on someone to come in so it looked like he was looking at me when in reality he was looking at the door. I chastise myself daily for my paranoia, but when your job is details and heinous crimes, you tend to become paranoid.

I hop back into my ole trusty Acura and start to head home. As I am pulling out of the parking lot, I think I see that same white van I saw at work. You are being paranoid; there are hundreds of vans like that. Still, I make a mental note of the scratch on the front bumper so I will remember it if I see it again.

The drive home is as uneventful as my everyday life. I pull into my childhood home, which happens to be one of the oldest houses on the street. Built in 1913, made of red brick, and three stories tall, it and its contents being the only thing I have left of my happy childhood memories. The gigantic oak in the front yard is where I played with my dolls while my Labrador, Bo, laid lazily beside me. Thinking back, the worst thing about my mom leaving is that she even took the dog! How can you take a dog and leave your only daughter? I unlock the door, hit the alarm code, and sit on the hall tree to take my shoes off, just as I have done every day for the past 30 plus years.

This house is too big for one person. I really should sell it, I think for the hundredth time. My father moved out and left me here when he met his new wife, Solange, who happens to be my same age, about 6 years ago. She hated that he wouldn't ask me to leave, so she made him buy another house in San Marco, right across the river. If I go out onto our dock and look towards downtown, I can see their dock, almost directly across from me. She wanted out of the house, but not out of the lifestyle that comes with owing a house on the river.

I decide to skip dinner and go straight upstairs, where I plan to work out on my elliptical machine for about 45 minutes, after locking back up and setting the alarm. For some reason I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me. I check the back door, the patio door, and the front door we never use, then check the garage door I came through one last time. Satisfied that I'm all locked in, I circle back through the formal dining room and take the back stairwell up to my master suite. I keep picturing the husband and wife murder/suicide case I'm working on. As much as I want to have a relationship full of love and desire, I can't imagine what would have happened to make the wife shoot her husband of 22 years before she blows her own head off.

I am headed upstairs when I hear someone knocking on the main front door.

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