Dead In Red by L.L. Bartlett

knew.
    She’d sensed what I’d felt.
    “Have you ever had a psychic experience
before?” I asked her.
    Maggie looked even more uncomfortable.
“No. I have not. But when I’m
near you . . . I don’t know how to explain it. You do
something weird to me. It’s awful and nice at the same time. I
don’t think I like you very much, but . . . maybe I’m
attracted to you because of it.”
    “Thanks. I think.”
    Her cheeks colored. “I’m sorry. That didn’t
come out right. I’m afraid of you, and yet . . . oh, I
don’t know.”
    “Why did you agree to come out with me
today? To test it?”
    Her gaze wouldn’t meet mine. “Maybe.”
    I reached over, took her hand. Her head
jerked up and she gasped, her mouth dropping open. Her fingers felt
fever hot against mine. She was afraid and yet fascinated. “What do
you feel, Maggie?”
    Her breaths were more like pants. “You.”
    I let go of her hand, remembering how my
first experiences with this . . . whatever it was, had
freaked me out. We’d briefly shared something similar once
before—but I hadn’t given it much thought. Obviously she had. I
wasn’t sure I liked it any better than she did. Then again, it was
kind of a kick to know I connected with someone on more than just a
physical level.
    “What do we do about . . . this?”
she asked, her voice sounding small.
    “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
    “I don’t think I can answer that. At least
not today.” She gathered her purse and sweater. “Can we go home
now?”
    “Yeah.” I signaled the waitress, who brought
the check. I paid the bill and followed Maggie to the door.
    Maggie didn’t look at me during the long,
quiet ride back to Buffalo. When I pulled up Richard’s driveway,
she mumbled a “thanks for the lunch” and got out of my car. I
watched as her car pulled away.
    She never looked back.
     
    # # #
     
     

CHAPTER 6
     
    My weekend didn’t improve on Sunday. I awoke
with the grumbling inside my head that always foretold a migraine.
I took my medication and stayed in my darkened, quiet room until I
absolutely had to get up to go to the bar for my shift.
    Tom was on the phone when I got there—ten
minutes late—and waved me to take over out front. Several customers
were already perched on stools, watching the golf pre-match
commentary on the bar’s big-screen TV. I leaned against the
backbar, massaging my temples, wondering if I could get away with
wearing sunglasses in the darkened bar, and praying it would be a
slow day.
    No such luck. Six leather- and denim-clad
bikers barreled through the side entrance, grabbing a table near
the big front window. Boisterous and full of energy, their voices
clawed at my already ragged nerves. I had to force myself to
approach the screaming white glare of the window. “What can I get
you guys?”
    “A couple of pitchers of Coors,” said the
one closest to me, a grizzled, bearded guy with a faded blue
bandana tied around his head. Even seated he looked twice my size.
His tattoos and leathers were Harley Davidson all the way and he
was celebrating, pure joy bombarding my senses like a tsunami.
Birth of a grandson? I wasn’t sure. But even pleasant emotions can
overwhelm when they’re directed with battering force. I turned
abruptly to get away from the mental assault.
    Filling the pitchers took an eternity, the
smell of hops seemed overly strong for such a mainstream lager. I
balanced them and six glasses on a tray and started for the table
when my sneaker toe caught on the rubber mat behind the bar. Time
shifted into slow motion and I watched, horror-struck, as the tray
flew from my hands, the beer rising out of the pitchers like
geysers. The glasses tumbled end over end and seemed to take a lot
longer than me to hit the floor. The spectacular, shattering crash
threatened to split my already aching skull. Thank God I shut my
eyes as beer drenched me and glass shards peppered my face.
    Except for the drone of the TV