Pathways - Jeri Taylor [131]
A woman whose name he had already forgotten twined her arms around Tom’s neck, murmuring softly in his ear. It wasn’t a particularly erotic sensation, but it wasn’t unpleasant, and he allowed her to cling to him as he sipped his drink and eyed his opponent.
That was a blue-skinned Bolian whose name he had also forgotten, but whose prowess at pool was impressive. The vague thought came to him that there was a time when that challenge might have invigorated him, sending adrenaline coursing and pulse quickening, pushing him to marshal all his skills to best his adversary. But that time was long ago, and receding quickly in the alcohol-shrouded mists of faint memory.
The past didn’t matter anymore. In fact, the present didn’t matter so much, either. And the future was a void, so it warranted no concern.
So there was really nothing to worry about.
He took another sip of his drink, and reflected briefly on the glories of single-malt Scotch whiskey. He anticipated the first drink of the day with a reverence that was almost holy. The initial taste on the tongue, smooth as liquid velvet but burning with an intense heat . . . the course of the whiskey down his throat and into his stomach . . . and then its plunge into his bloodstream, warming him, smoothing the mild shake in his hands, blunting the ache in his head.
It was enough to get up for.
“Tommy . . . come on . . . we’ve been here long enough . . . can’t we go?”
The woman was beginning to irritate him. He unwrapped her arms from his neck and held her away from him. “If you want to go—go,” he said. “I’m busy.”
He was aware that she went into a pout but he didn’t really give a damn. He was more concerned that the Bolian was running the table. That was—what? The fourth time tonight? Well, it didn’t matter. There was no wager. There was nothing worth wagering. If the Bolian had his ego gratified with the victory, that was fine with Tom. He threw up his hands and headed for the bar. His glass was empty.
Sandrine was behind the bar. She was the same one who had befriended him when he spent a semester in Marseilles during his stint at the Academy. That was—a long time ago. He tried briefly to remember if it was five or six years, but couldn’t, but that was all right because it didn’t matter.
Sandrine was eyeing him in clear disapproval. “Go home, Tom,” she said in French. “You’ve had enough.”
“One more, my love. Can’t quite embrace the arms of Morpheus without a dollop more,” he replied in English. It was a game he played with her, because he knew it annoyed her that, even though he was fluent in French, he refused to speak in anything but English. These days, one took one’s victories where one could.
She poured the drink, as he knew she would. He took it neat—the need for ice or water had long since passed. As she tipped the bottle over his glass, he put his fingers over hers, coaxing out another inch of the liquid. Sandrine pursed her lips and turned her back on him. He laughed.
He sat alone at a table, aware that the woman who’d been draped over him was standing against the wall, arms crossed and lips pursed in a telegraphed snit. He wondered if she really thought that was going to make him come over to her, to grovel and let her lead him around like a poodle. Well, she could stand there till she turned to granite for all he cared.
“You alone?” The voice came from someone who’d approached from behind him. He turned and looked up to see a tall, strapping human with short black hair and a strange tattoo on his temple. His voice was quiet but commanding, with a timbre that made even Tom, in a whiskey daze, take notice.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. By choice.”
“Mind if I sit down? I have a proposition for you.”
“Not interested.”
“I think you might be if you hear what it is.”
Tom had gotten into fistfights with people less pushy than this. But something in this man’s voice, his very presence, exuded a power