Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
He goes by Scythe, and the women I’ve taken to Second Star have started drooling the moment they set eyes on him. He’s always wearing a dark trench coat covered in chains over a ruffly white shirt and maroon parachute pants. Heavy scruff over a chiseled jaw and a layer of liner under each eye. The thing that really makes him stand out, though, is his prosthetic left arm. He lost the one he was born with in some kind of gang fight in his youth, and rather than replacing it with one that looks like a regular arm, he had a robotic one crafted out of aluminum and titanium that brilliantly catches the starlight. Scythe prides himself on how badass it makes him look, and I’m guessing his entire ensemble is crafted to highlight rather than downplay the prosthetic.
He's at the bar, currently chatting with the bartender, a dark-skinned woman wearing a light-brown dress. He turns and faces me right as we approach him, raising his dark eyebrows slightly.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes.” I stretch out my hand. “Harrison O’Rourke. I’m a doctor at a hospital downtown. I’ve come to this club a few times in the past.”
He shakes my hand with his biological arm. “Aye, I thought so.” He narrows his eyes at Bianca. “And who’s the lass?”
Bianca offers him a timid smile. “Bianca. Bianca Montrose.”
Unlike Lucille and Zeb, Scythe doesn’t react to the Montrose name. He merely shakes Bianca’s hand as well and then gestures to the bartender. “And this is Lily Brindle, our barkeep.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Lily says. “What can I get you?”
“We’re not actually here to drink,” I say. “Scythe, could we speak somewhere private?”
Scythe glances toward Lily. “Lily here is my main confidante. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.”
“It’s a matter of some sensitivity,” I reply.
“Read my lips.” Scythe leans in. “You can say whatever you need to say in front of Lily, or you can say nothing at all.”
I look around. The bar is pretty deserted—most of the people at Second Star seem to congregate in the planetarium or on the dance floor—so I relent and take a seat next to Scythe. Bianca takes the stool next to me.
“One other condition.” Scythe gestures to the shelf of dark liquors behind Lily. “You drink with me while we talk.”
“I really don’t think we should—”
Scythe cuts Bianca off with a wave of his robotic arm. “We have the city’s finest selection of rums. I’d be offended if you didn’t partake.”
“We’d be happy to,” I reply. “My treat.”
I don’t love the idea of having a drink when we’re gathering intel, but a few sips won’t kill us, provided Scythe isn’t adding something extra to the rum.
Maybe I’ll just pretend to sip at it while we talk.
I look over to Bianca, bounce my eyebrow slightly and dart my gaze to the bar. She nods vaguely, hopefully understanding my silent message.
Lily pours us a glass each of Appleton Estate twenty-one-year rum. Scythe takes the first sip, wiping a drop of liquor off his scruffy beard. “What exactly is picking at you two?”
I take a sip of my own rum—God, it’s smooth. “We were wondering if you’ve noticed any odd turnover with any of your servers.”
Scythe raises an eyebrow. “Turnover?”
“We’ve been looking through all the clubs that my sister—Rouge—owns,” Bianca says. “We’ve seen a troubling pattern. Waitstaff and patrons alike seem to be dropping off the face of the earth after their time at their clubs. Have you noticed anything like that occurring here at Second Star?”
Scythe widens his eyes and then quickly drains his lowball glass, clanking it down on the bar counter. “Lily, another.”
“Of course, Scythe.” Lily pours him another glass.
Scythe grabs the second glass and takes another long sip. “It’s funny that you should mention that. One of our waitstaff, Tina, just very recently gave a very sudden notice of leave.”
“She did?” I ask.
“Aye, she did.” Scythe swishes the rum in his glass, staring at the counter of the bar. “She and I… We were something of an item. Nothing official, just a casual friendship with benefits. Then, out of nowhere, I receive a typed note a few weeks ago. Not an email, not a text, but an honest-to-God note on real paper left on my office door in the dead of night. I tried calling her, but her phone was disconnected. Her social media wiped clean.”
“Did you give her any reason to believe she wasn’t safe here?” Bianca asks.
Scythe’s face reddens. “No. Just because I’ve got a great big scary arm, you think I’d be abusive to a woman?”
I raise a hand. “Simmer down, Scythe. My girlfriend was just asking a question. She’s not the kind to make snap judgments.”
“She’s a Montrose, isn’t she? Who’s to say what sort of carnage her type might get into?” Scythe turns sharply, and his prosthetic arm knocks his half-full glass of rum to the floor, shattering it.