Maelstrom

Chapter 18: What Planet Are You From?

Wednesday night

He still wasn't here; maybe he wasn't coming at all.

I paused for a moment in the reapplication of my cobalt blue lipstick. It was nearly 1:30am. I was more than halfway through my shift, coming off my break, and checking my look in the break room mirror before stepping back behind the bar.

NeNe, one of the other bartenders, ducked in to grab something from her locker, but averted her eyes and said nothing when she saw me. She was uncomfortable – maybe intimidated – but not unfriendly, I realized. Was it the baleful blue eye of my dragon tattoo, or the lean, well-defined muscles it coiled around? Maybe it was my spiked, braided, ponytailed, cascading explosion of hair. Maybe it was my dramatically painted black and cobalt cat eyes, the end of each eyebrow tipped with a tiny stuck-on plastic sapphire. Or maybe it was the fact that my ridiculous black stormtrooper boots incorporated a platform that put me somewhere over six feet tall. It was the shoes, I decided; it's gotta be the shoes.

I finished painting my lips and blotted them on a tissue pulled from the box on the coffee table. I regarded my reflection, turning my head a bit to each side. Not bad. It had taken me hours to put together this look, worthy of the most avid ComiCon fan, but it was serving its purpose: I looked both totally hot and completely unapproachable. Even the clientele at my bar station was more heavily female than usual. Something about tremendous height, blue lipstick, and a hairstyle reminiscent of the Predator on a bad day was apparently a real turnoff. I filed that handy observation away for future use.

Of course, even the success of my SyFy-channel-worthy get-up couldn't counter my disappointment at Alkaev's absence. My sense of self-worth had plummeted after last week's meeting with DiMarco, and had dropped, somehow, even lower as I'd typed up my weekly log Sunday morning: no clandestine meetings or mysterious shipments, just two entry times, a guess at Friday's exit time, and a vague "he was still there when I left" for Saturday night. Tonight, it seemed, I wouldn't even have that much to report.

I nodded to Glory when I returned to the bar. "I gotta know," the other woman gushed melodramatically. "What planet are you supposed to be from?"

"Oh, that would be Planet Kiss-My-Ass," I told her cheerfully. "I could give you directions, if you like."

Glory laughed and gave me a quick wink. "You look fucking awesome and you know it." She eyed the crowd briefly. "Too bad it's wasted on a bunch of drunk corporate tools," she muttered.

I was a little taken aback. Glory must have had to serve some truly obnoxious businessman-types while I had been on break; I hadn't ever heard the other bartender be anything but enthusiastic about anyone. I gave her a supportive smile and zeroed in on my next customer.

"What can I get you?"

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Tonight, I was the first at the main bar to finish checking out. Without Alkaev's unsettling presence, my brain was actually firing on all cylinders. Or maybe I was getting used to the night owl schedule.

"Hey, Glory, I'm outta here. Have a good night," I said.

Glory held up her index finger and continued counting under her breath. She punched a set of numbers into her smartphone's calculator app and turned to me.

"The rest of us are going to The Hot Pot when we're done," she said, naming the 24-hour diner down the street. "Wanna come with us? They make a mean bacon double-cheeseburger with an over-easy egg right on the top."

I adopted a pained expression and pressed a hand to my flat belly. "Thanks for the stomach-churning image, but I'm a vegan, so no thanks."

"I didn't know that," Glory exclaimed. Since we had only known each other for a few nights, I didn't find that as surprising as Glory apparently did. How would the Winehouse lookalike feel if she found out that she didn't know her new coworker's real name or profession either?