good/right/real

Chapter 2: Needing Somebody

It's kinda late for a girl like you to be out on her own, isn't it?"

The sound of the slurring invitation hits Matt's ears and causes his muscles to tense. His eyes slide to the blonde a few stools over and the drunk who's sidled up to her with a lecherous smirk.

The blonde doesn't shy away or recoil. She rolls her eyes and looks at the man with a cool stare. "What kind of girl do you think I am exactly?"

"Nice," the man sneers as he leans into her space.

She chuckles and takes a long sip of her beer before replying. "Nice doesn't mean stupid."

She turns to face him and points to the group of women at the back table, obviously checking him out and likely on their third fancy cocktail for the evening. Herrmann tried to resist craft cocktails but Otis talked him into it anyway. The drunk girls in the back of the bar help Matt understand Herrmann's aversion.

"You should try them," the blonde tells him. "They're clearly interested. I'm not."

The man glares at her and scoffs. "You're too much work anyway."

She laughs lightly as he leaves and shakes her head. "That's what happens when the nice girl stops being a doormat."

She says it more to herself than the drunk, but he catches it. Her tone sounds a bit despondent with a little resentment mixed in. Maybe he can't relate to the statement, but he can certainly relate to sentiment.

"You don't seem like a doormat to me," he comments facing her with a crooked grin.

"Yeah? Well, you're probably the first guy I've met who hasn't taken one look at the blonde hair and wide smile and thought 'now, there's a push over. How can I take advantage of that?'" She stops and shakes her head. "But not anymore. I'm gonna reinvent myself. The old Sylvie is dead."

Sylvie. A nice name for a nice girl, he thinks.

That wide smile she mentioned is suddenly aimed at him and, for the first time since this conversation started, he realizes exactly how uncommonly pretty she is. He finds himself more than a little disarmed and not at all prepared for her next sentence.

"And the new Sylvie is gonna make Chicago her bitch."

It's so unexpected that he can't help but laugh. He doesn't mean any offense but she looks offended anyway. He shakes his head and moves down to the vacant stool next to hers.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh," he tells her with a small smile. He's relieved to be feeling something besides the need to beat his fists against the wall until they're bloody and raw. "I'm sure you'll do it — make Chicago your bitch, I mean. I just didn't see those words coming from you, that's all."

She shrugs and the offended expression is replaced by a subtle upward tilt of her lips. "Not the first time someone's laughed at me for swearing. I get it."

"I'm Matt," he says as he holds his hand out for a shake. "It's nice to meet you, Sylvie."

She slips her hand in his and it's surprisingly callused and dry. Again, not what he'd been expecting. This girl's done some kind of manual labor in her lifetime. He knows those sort of calluses. He has them himself.

"You too," she replies, shaking his hand gently. "So, what brings you to a bar at 2 am, Matt?"

His gaze moves to the front door — the one that held memories he'd spent the last six weeks attempting to obliterate — and then back to Sylvie.

"Trying to forget," he admits.

She nods slowly, a pensive expression on her face. "That's a tall order."