Part 25 (1/2)

So what, then . . . read the signs? They were just ambiguous enough to worry him. And getting it wrong meant facing rejection and loss, however polite or gently executed. And that was something Syd categorically refused to risk.

His walls were too hard-won, the peace too fragile. The battle between aloneness and loneliness was being waged on a daily basis.

And he asked himself, how long does it take before the dread spectre of rebound stops rearing its ugly head?

He wondered what Jane would make of all this, if he told her. On the surface, at least, she seemed to be free of this sort of stupidity. Just like she seemed, on the surface, to be interested in him.

But then, of course, she didn't know what he was.

And so around and around he went, making himself insane behind a cool veneer of bartenderly efficiency and calm. It went that way until just around two AM.

And then, once again, the course of his life was dramatically altered forever.

It was one forty-five, and the bar had already thinned out, maybe a half-dozen stragglers nursing their last calls. Trent, being the head bartender, was in charge of closing up; his wife was home in bed, nursing a case of extreme pregnancy.

Then the phone rang. Trent was hauling up a fresh keg from the bas.e.m.e.nt when Syd picked up the line. He stuck his head through the double doors leading to the kitchen, spotted Trent wrestling with the keg as he came up the stairs.

”Trent! It's Leslie!”

Trent groaned, bracing himself; her weird cravings had extended clear into the ninth month, and it was not unusual for her to hit him with last-minute late-night requests for anything from chocolate raisins-and-pork rinds to black licorice-and-pickles. ”Tell her I'm already gone for the night,” he grumbled.

Syd shook his head. ”She says you better be on your way to the hospital, then,” he deadpanned. ”Her water just broke.”

Trent's face went white, then gray, then red. ”HOLY s.h.i.+T!” he yelped. He dropped the keg and bounded up the cellar steps, grabbed the phone from Syd's outstretched hand. Jane came up, wiping her hands.

”What's going on?” she asked. She took one look at Trent's face.

And thus did Syd graduate to closing up.

At two twenty-five, Syd looked up to see the other waitresses ducking out. He was just finis.h.i.+ng closing out the books; they were through with cleanup and the ritual splitting of tips. They each said 'bye and waved on their respective ways out. Jane was still at the bar, lingering behind. Bonnie, the last one to leave, threw him a sly look as she headed through the door.

And then he and Jane were alone.

As Syd totaled the receipts Jane went over to the jukebox, punched up some tunes. The first muted chords of ZZ Top's ”La Grange” came on, low and thrumming as Jane sidled up to a stool directly before him, took a load off her feet; as she did she rocked her head back and forth, working the kinks out of her neck.

”G.o.d,” she groaned. ”I hate Ladies' Night. Why don't they just call it 'Drunken h.e.l.l-s.l.u.ts Night' and get it over with?”

”Guess people are just afraid to say what they really mean,” Syd replied, trying not to watch.

”Yeah,” Jane said. ”Where would we be if we all started telling each other the truth?”

Their eyes made fleeting contact, and then Jane looked away, as if she wanted to say something further, opted not to. She turned her attention to the books.

”All done?” she asked. Syd nodded. ”Lemme see.”

She scanned the register readouts, cross-referenced them against the night's receipts. After a moment, she nodded. ”Looks okay to me,” she said. ”You sure you didn't go to Famous Bartenders' School?”

”Nope,” Syd shrugged. ”Just have years of experience,” adding, ”most of it on the other side of the bar.”

”Yeah,” she replied. ”I noticed.”

Syd felt his face go red, hoped it didn't show; Jane cut him a little slack. ”Anyway, that was a long time ago,” she said. ”Just for the record, everybody 'round here thinks you're doing a great job.”

”Thanks.” Syd stopped, thought about Jules, and the shoes he had to fill. Jane said nothing, started rubbing her neck again. Suddenly she hunched her shoulders. ”Ow! s.h.i.+t!” She winced.

”What's wrong?”

”My neck,” she replied. ”Sometimes it gets like this after a s.h.i.+ft.”

”Hang on.”

Syd hustled around the bar, came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and began gently ma.s.saging the muscles there.

”Oh G.o.d,” she murmured, spontaneously melting as the knotted tissue gave way beneath his touch. ”Ow . . .!” She flinched, tightened up again.

”Sorry,” he said, backing off a bit, as his heart did cartwheels into the stratosphere. She relaxed, leaning back 'till her head just touched his chest. Syd worked his way along her shoulders, around the base of her neck, and up to the apex of her spine. Her skin was warm and soft, the flesh beneath firm and supple. He was certain the pounding of his heart would give her a concussion as it gave away his feelings, revealed the depth of his desire. Any minute she would stand and shake off the contact, redraw the line between them. . . .

But Jane showed no sign of leaving. She stayed put, letting her weight lean into him. When she spoke, her voice was soft, cautious.

”You've really changed. . . .” she began.

Syd kept silent, kept working: feeling her breathe, drinking in her warmth.

”I used to think you were kind of an a.s.shole, sometimes,” she continued. It was Syd's turn to flinch. He thought about it, then nodded.

”Me, too,” he confessed.

Jane echoed the gesture, her head still against his chest. She relaxed a little more, let her full weight lean into him.

”For the record, I like you better this way.”

”Me, too.”

There was another long pause, both lost in their own thoughts. Syd kept ma.s.saging her: holding the line, afraid to either break the contact or press forward. Knowing that, either way, the next move was hers.

”That feels great,” she said dreamily.

She brought one hand up to join with his; the second their fingers touched it sent a charge directly to the green light in his soul. He felt a warm light glow there, begin spreading through him.

His fingers gently disengaged, traced the back of her hand to the outside of her arm and up to her neck. As they found the line of her jaw, she tilted her head in response, leaning into his hand. His fingertips came up, brushed against her lips.

She kissed them.