Page 9 of Wanted

I look down at myself to see if I accidentally left the zipper of my pants open or something.

It’s not that.

But as I direct my attention to others, I see a few women dressed in ripped jean shorts and bras that I suppose are passing as their shirt. A few men wear leather pants with chains around their waists.

Not only is their attire questionable but there’s an odd smell that fills the air. It doesn’t stink, not really. It smells of…outside. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

What the hell type of bar is this?

Among the stares, I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin and head directly to the bar. I haven’t spent much time in dive bars but from the movies I’ve watched, the person looking for answers always goes to the bartender.

So that’s where I go.

“Hello,” I greet with my biggest smile. My face falls, however, when the dark eyes of the bartender land on me. It’s not theunfriendly stare he gives me or the darkness of his eyes. Though, it might be the scars slashing across his face that give me pause.

I clear my throat and glance away to keep myself from staring. “Uh…” I’m completely out of my league and words stick in my throat.

“Drink,” he demands in a gruff voice.

“No, I?—”

“Drink.” His voice is dry and brokers no argument.

“Um, a beer,” I say. “Do you have anything on tap?” Before the question is fully out of my mouth, he slides a beer bottle in front of me. No glass to pour it in. Nothing. “I suppose not,” I mumble.

He starts to walk away.

“Excuse me.” I lean over the bar.

He turns that glare on me again as if he can’t believe I would interrupt him. When everything inside of me wants to pull away, I remind myself why I’m here in the first place.

For Ashley. I need to find my sister.

“Can you tell me if you’ve seen this woman here recently?” I pull out my cell phone and bring up one of the latest photos I have of her.

“No,” he answers, eyes still on me.

“But you haven’t looked at the picture.”

“Don’t need to.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” I hold my phone up higher and practically thrust it in his face. “Here. Please look.”

His stare lingers on me for a few beats, but eventually his eyes drop to my phone screen.

“She’s about five-nine, an inch taller than me, and shade or two lighter than me,” I say, noting my darker brown shading as opposed to Ashley’s more coppery tone. “She might have had her hair in multicolored braids.”

That was her hairstyle the last time we had one of our video calls, but that was a week before she left me that voicemail and Ash changed her hair almost as often as she changed her clothes.

“If not the braids, she probably had on something bright and multicolored.” Much to our mother’s chagrin, Ashley loved bright colors and patterns. She wears them constantly.

“Please.” I thrust my phone in his face again.

He stares at the picture and then shifts his gaze back to me. He doesn’t say anything.

“She hasn’t been here,” a voice from my left says, startling me.

I turn to see a less frightening man sitting on the wooden stool next to me. I give him my full attention.