Free Pop Travel by Tara Tyler

ordering his meal, he went to the restroom. Retrieving the stick drives from his shirt, he slipped one into a link of his silver QV wristband for safekeeping and the other into his pocket, separating them. Just in case he got into trouble, he could offer up one of the drives and not lose them both. He felt like a covert operative.
    When he returned to the bar, he left Miki a message, letting her know he would be staying in Atlanta for one or two nights and would check in with her the next day.
    As he finished his burger, the news came on the old plasma TV hanging over the bar.
    “You done with that?” the bartender asked.
    “Sure. I’ll take another Diet Coke, if you don’t mind,” he added and pointed at his glass.
    “No problem.” The bartender refilled it. “How long you been clean?” he asked.
    “Two years, four months, five days. How’d you know?”
    “Eight years, five months, twenty days. You’re sitting alone at a bar and you’re not drinking. Lucky guess.” He wiped off his hand and offered it to Cooper, who shook it.
    “So you schlepping it isn’t a temptation?” he asked.
    “Working here actually helps. You should see some of the assholes who come through. Especially with the nudie bars around here.”
    “Ah. I bet.” Cooper nodded. On the TV, he caught the last bit of the top story covering the death at the travelport. “Could you turn that up?”
    “Sure.” The bartender adjusted the volume. It sounded like they were ruling it an accident and moving on. Nothing to see here. Audrey deserved better than that. But they rolled right into the next story, about a local accountant who had wrapped his car around a tree somewhere outside the city limits. When they announced Jonathan Phisner’s name, Cooper had to steady himself, grabbing the bar to keep from falling off his stool.
Phisner? What the hell!
Cooper hoped the bartender hadn’t noticed his reaction.
    The anchorwoman said the police were gathering evidence to determine if it might have been a suicide or a case of drunk driving. Either way, alcohol was involved. They rehashed Phisner’s tragic story, insinuating he had been carrying around plenty of guilt about the unproven murder of his fiancée, Aleesa Kingston. Now they would never know.
    Poor Phisner had been right all along. Cooper swallowed hard.
    Though Cooper kept a straight face, the bartender could tell something bothered him.
    “Did you know that guy?” he asked.
    “Sort of. I think he worked at the firm that does my taxes.” Cooper shrugged. That sounded good.
    “Too bad. One more reason to stay clean,” the bartender commented.
    “Amen,” Cooper agreed. Though he felt like having a double.

    Embassy Suites, Atlanta
8:30 a.m., Thursday, July 25
    Cooper opened his eyes and stared at a stain on the ceiling. Reaching his hands to his face, he tried to rub the scowl off it. His head ached like a hangover, though he had had nothing to drink the night before. The images of Audrey had regurgitated in his dreams, along with the newscast of Jonathan Phisner’s car crash, which left him thrashing around all night. Two people dead because of him. He scratched the back of his head. How would he get out of this? The situation was lose-lose. Whether he did anything or not, there were sure to be more “accidents.” And having information someone desperately wanted put him at the top of the list. Hopefully they didn’t know he had anything.
    Sitting up, Cooper squinted at the tiny stick drive next to his QV on the dresser under the massive, first generation compucenter screen. Thinking about what might be on the little buggers made him groan. It couldn’t be good, and apparently, it was worth killing for. He’d have to decide what to do with them soon, before he went missing. He brainstormed possibilities.
    Scenario One, he could toss them. Or better yet, destroy them. But that might help the people watching him. In his lawyer days, he had always represented the little guy.