Sympathy For The Devil by Asha King

the staff areas. She clutched her purse tight to her side and stepped swiftly down the corridor of stained once-white tile. The walls were wood-paneled, seventies style and scraped deeply with knife-carved graffiti. A cloud of smoke hung high above her head and she swallowed a cough. Though not a smoker herself, she hung out with enough people who were—she could fake it, just this once, if it meant not making a spectacle of herself.
    The hall opened to the main room of the bar. Wide archways left and right led to additional rooms, one with a jukebox that didn’t work and the other with a pair of pool tables. Tash went straight for the bar instead, climbing onto a stool of split-vinyl repaired with electrical tape. She didn’t know this particular bartender but batted her eyelashes at him anyway and ordered a chocolate stout.
    Only while she was waiting did she realize she wasn’t particularly dressed for semi-undercover work trailing her target to a bar. Still in her cotton crop pants, a tank top, and tennis shoes, she looked a little preppy for Eight’s. There was nothing she could do about that but from now on she’d maybe dress in layers and keep backup shoes in the car.
    The bartender slid her drink to her just as the front door open. While she didn’t look, a hush fell over the room, and the atmosphere prickled with awareness. Clearly most of the people there knew it was Devin Archer, and as whispering took up, anyone who hadn’t kept up to date with small town gossip was swiftly being informed.
    Tash didn’t turn, taking a sip of her frothy beer and acting oblivious. Men parted from the bar a moment before a figure stepped into her peripheral vision, sliding into a barstool two seats away.
    “Jack D, on the rocks,” Archer called.
    The bartender eyed him for a moment, then seemed to think the better of arguing and reached for a glass.
    A package crackled and lighter clicked.
    “Hey.” The bartender tapped on the non-smoking sign above the array of liquor.
    Archer sighed and tossed a crumpled ten on the counter. The bartender tapped the sign again and when an additional bill wasn’t tossed down, he returned to filling the drink. Her target grumbled and stuffed his cigarette pack back in his pocket.
    Tash couldn’t resist, speaking though she still stared ahead. “I warned you.”
    He chuckled grimly. “You didn’t say how much extra.”
    “Starts at twenty if they like you.”
    “So upwards of fifty for me.”
    She didn’t respond, taking a long drink of her beer. The bartender served Archer his drink, took the ten, and produced change.
    The bar was still quiet, all the laughter and shouts from earlier falling to whispers. Music blared, vocals near intelligible with the bass thrumming. At last Tash looked around.
    All the patrons stood around the perimeter of the room, watching. For a group of mostly men who had their share of mug shots, they all had a problem with Archer’s presence.
    “Ever get the feeling you’re not welcome somewhere?” he said in a low voice.
    “Nope, never. Must just be you.”
    He scooped up his glass, ice clinking together as he took a sip. “Think they’ll stop staring if I get a table?”
    “They’ll at least be more likely to come up to the bar. So you’ll have drunk people staring.”
    Archer stood, moved closer to her side. “Join me.”
    Play it cool, play it cool—just say no, you can’t. Go wait in your car. Because he is your target and likely a killer.
    He moved toward a table across the bar without awaiting her response. She stared a moment longer, then gathered up her drink and followed. For the moment, he didn’t know who she was and she could play dumb with regards to him—maybe she’d find out where he hung out or how long he’d be in town.
    Patrons shifted restlessly up to the bar in Archer’s absence, posturing and grumbling, looking back at him frequently. Tash sped up and slid into the seat opposite Archer as he sat.
    He set down his glass