Meet Me In The Alleyway

The first thing I notice is the bartender’s smile, all melted, soft, and liquid-dangerous, something sparkling in her eyes like she just knows as I lift the lip of the bottle of cider to my own mouth.

The second is the flecks of blood peeking out from under her collar.

The blood is light and muted, unclear enough in the dark lighting of this dive bar, which is glowing only with the neon lights of a few spare novelty signs, that most who didn’t know to check probably wouldn’t see it.

Even if they did, people see what they want. They’d sooner assume it’s syrup leftover and spilled from some fruity cocktail than evidence of what goes on in the back of this bar after hours.

But I know what I came here for.

And so does she.

“Alley. Twenty minutes,” she says when she slides my receipt and my card back, her breath a ghost against my ear. I bite back a shiver when the ...