Free On The Rocks by Sable Jordan

Dougie.”

 
    3
    Bruges, Belgium
     
    AT A TABLE in a bar on the Grote Markt,
Phillip Marchande glanced at his watch with all the calm of a
father waiting for his daughter half an hour past curfew on prom
night.
    The plate of frites had gone cold,
the near-empty bottle of Zot was warm, and inside he could give the
sun a run for its money in the flaming hot department.
    The cobblestoned plaza beyond the window was
awash in tourists. A couple strolled hand in hand, chatting and
laughing as they made their way to the queue for a horse-drawn
carriage ride. In the distance, hordes of people lined up to hike
the steps of Belfort Tower. Three hundred and sixty-six narrow
footholds to the top, nearly as steep as the eight-euro price tag
the grueling climb cost.
    But the view of the city from that height
made the extra effort worth it.
    Two kids —a boy and a girl— paused just on
the other side of the glass, pulling piping hot frites from
the paper cone in the boy’s grip. The girl blew on her fry, and
carefully nipped off the top corner. But her friend shoved that
deep-fried potato into his mouth whole and got to chewing. Then his
fry-hole popped open and he frantically fanned at his tongue.
    The first lesson should have been enough,
but no, another steaming potato slice disappeared past his lips.
Jazz-hands quickly followed.
    The little guy could learn a thing or two
about patience. And Phil could teach him. Because while the world
rushed by on the other side of this window, he’d been sitting in
the same spot for two hours.
    Two. Hours.
    Perfect target had anyone been looking to
take him out, and Lord knew he and Xander had enough enemies for
that to be a genuine concern.
    He swallowed down some tepid beer and ground
his teeth.
    Zlata was late. Which made him late. Phil
should have been in Paris by now, not that he should have come to
Bruges in the first place, but he didn’t really have a choice in
the matter, did he? Like Xander, the girl… young woman they’d
rescued from Sacha Sokoviev’s dysfunction dungeon was his charge.
He was duty-bound to check in on her when he got a chance.
    Or every chance he got.
    Whatever.
    Zlata should have been at work by now, and
it made Phil’s job pretty damned difficult when she didn’t turn up
where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there,
even if she never knew he was coming. Even if, when he did show up,
he never said a single word to her.
    Any number of things could have happened.
She could have been sick. Or she could have stayed late to discuss
her Statistics homework with her professor. Except he’d checked
there and she didn’t show for class.
    So how long had that been going on? How long
had she been ditching school and missing her shift at the
restaurant?
    Two weeks back he’d come to the Markt,
different bar, same objective, and he’d found her. Actually had a
near miss with Zlata as she left her job headed to class.
    Or had she been going someplace else?
    A tic started in his cheek and he dragged a
slow breath through his nose. Kept staring out the window, people
watching.
    Zlata skipping class shouldn’t have annoyed
him, but it did. They had a deal.
    After Sacha’s, going back to her family
wasn’t an option. The reasons behind that seriously pissed him off,
and a pissed off Phil made nukes look like puppy dog kisses so best
he didn’t think about it. At any rate, Zlata couldn’t go back
“home,” and she sure as hell couldn’t gallivant around the world
with a couple of guys who flirted with death like they were begging
to go steady.
    The kid needed an out.
    He gave her one.
    She’d go to school, get her degree in
underwater basket weaving if that’s what she wanted, and go on to
become a happy, healthy, basket-making member of society. In
return, Phil would pay for everything. Tuition, books, food,
housing, clothes, car. The waitressing gig was unnecessary.
Whatever she needed —monetarily— Phil provided. Dumped money into
her bank