Free Not Quite Forever (Not Quite series) by Catherine Bybee Page A

herself the tight black leggings, long shirt that managed to look like a dress, and three-inch heels were her norm when grabbing a drink.
    Lying to herself wasn’t a new thing.
    Chances were she’d meet a friend or two of Walt’s at the bar. Since he didn’t date, she wanted to make a good impression . . . and that was a first. Most times, she couldn’t care less what people thought of her.
    Dark walls filled the bar along with the smell of old beer, smoke-filled ceiling tiles, and musty depression that accompanied dives like this one.
    It was seven thirty-five, minutes past the time that Walt said he’d be there. There was a group of twentysomethings in the corner drinking bottled beer. Two sets of eyes from that group found her before she moved her attention away. The bar housed a couple of older men, somewhere in their late fifties, and a couple.
    There were tables, but only a few, and a jukebox poured out a mix of contemporary rock.
    The place was old, dark, and smelled stale, but Dakota realized when she sat down that it was relatively clean . . . well, except for the ceiling. It might take a California wildfire to take out that dirt.
    A table large enough for two sat in the back of the bar where she could keep an eye on the door. She knew there were plenty of eyes on her as she moved through the bar. She chose to ignore them.
    The waitress wore jeans and a smile.
    “What’s the best whiskey you have back there?” she asked.
    The waitress replied with a label that might not have been Dakota’s first choice, but better than she expected. Before the girl walked away, she nodded over her shoulder. “Those guys over there are already trying to buy you a drink.”
    Dakota avoided looking over the waitress’s shoulder, knew the younger men in the room were eyeing her.
    “Are they regulars?”
    “Sadly.”
    “If I tell them I’m married?”
    “Like that would matter.”
    “Big biker boyfriend?”
    The waitress was smiling now. “There are five of them . . . does this boyfriend of yours have friends?”
    Dakota tossed back her head with a laugh. “Do they have priors? Anyone on parole?”
    The girl lost her smile. “You’re a cop?”
    “Maybe . . . maybe not. I don’t need anyone buying my drinks.”
    The blonde set a napkin on the table and laughed. “I like you. You need Hector to walk you out . . . let me know.”
    Dakota lifted both index fingers to the waitress and grinned. “You got it.”
    With any luck, Hector wouldn’t be needed.
    Fifteen minutes later, Dakota started to wonder. Never going anywhere without a notebook, she jotted down her impressions of the bar and described a character sitting on a barstool watching a recap of an earlier game.
    The first two people who entered the bar in scrubs kept her in her seat. Monica had warned her that ER shifts weren’t like any other monster. There was no telling what would keep the staff late and no real way to contact an employee if they were knee-deep in a trauma or an equally difficult situation. The two walking into the bar narrowed their gaze on her the moment they hit the door.
    “I’m sorry,” the petite blonde pulled her long hair over her shoulder. “Are you Dakota?”
    Relieved she wasn’t being stood up, Dakota lifted her hand. “I am.”
    “I’m Valerie.” The girl was small, but her handshake wasn’t wimpy. “This is Nancy. Walt wanted us to tell you he’s on his way.”
    Nancy moved into a chair beside Dakota. “Full moon. Nothing good happens with a full moon.” Without a pause, Nancy continued, “I love your books.”
    Dakota grinned. “Thanks.”
    Valerie waved at the blonde waitress. “Gina, I’d kill for chicken wings.”
    So the waitress had a name. “You got it . . . Nancy?”
    “Vodka tonic.”
    With their orders taken, Dakota’s two new bar friends turned and stared. “You’re really Dakota Laurens.”
    Dakota took a swig of her drink. “You make it sound like I’m crazy famous.”
    “You