There were a pair of big-haired women at the bar, flanking a small hairy man. Before them, Jules stood, smiling indulgently. Syd guessed that they were trying to play "Stump the Bartender." Syd was sympathetic. He'd been trying to stump Jules since they first met, fifteen years ago. He'd pretty much resigned himself to the fact that it would never happen.

"Okay, okay," the small hairy man said, as Syd came within earshot. "Set me up with a couple of Prairie Fires, then." He looked incredibly smug, glancing from the b.r.e.a.s.t.s on his left to the b.r.e.a.s.t.s on his right and back again. Syd stopped and watched, curious. This was one he didn't know.

But Jules just plucked two shot gla.s.ses off the shelf and the Cuervo Gold off the speed rack before him. His oversized body's movements were surprisingly graceful, fluid, and precise. He poured a shot of tequila into each, replaced the bottle, and scooped the Tabasco from the condiments shelf, measuring out five scrupulous drops per shot and then sliding them over to Monkey Boy. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.

"And what will you ladies have?" Jules inquired, expression professionally neutral. It wouldn't do for the bartender to gloat.

"I wanna Tootsie Roll," said the one on the left, snapping her gum.

"I'd like a Screaming o.r.g.a.s.m, please," said the one on the right, looking bold and embarra.s.sed all at once.

"And I," Syd volunteered, bellying up beside the Tootsie Roll queen, "would like a Hemorrhaging Brain."

"Right you are," Jules said, lobbing a sidearm grin at Syd. Then he filled a pair of fancy highball gla.s.ses with crushed ice. Into the first he poured one ounce of Creme de Cacao, then topped it off with orange juice and shook it vigorously. Into the second he emptied half-ounce increments of amaretto, Kahlua, and Absolut (for the Screaming part). Cream polished off the rest of the o.r.g.a.s.m. Again, he shook, then slid them over to the ladies. The hairy man paid in full. Jules turned to ring it up.

When he turned back, his wily gaze was trained on Syd. A longneck Rolling Rock appeared in his hand. He cracked it open and set it down. "Thanks," said Syd. Jules nodded his head. His eyes, deep-set beneath their steep Cro-Magnon brow, had the warm glow of the genuine wild inside. There was something entirely primitive about his features, placing him somewhere between Tom Waits, Ron Perlman, and Andre the Giant on the evolutionary scale: a rough-hewn quality to the long, horsey face, with its coa.r.s.e black crop of hair, thick eyebrows to match, squat, prominent nose and sly, expansive deadpan grin full of slightly overlarge teeth.

It was a great face, all in all, and it suited Jules perfectly: full of character, full of surprises. It was a face that people were predestined to underestimate. Jules liked that, and used it constantly. You had to be paying attention if you wanted more than a fleeting glimpse of how quick he actually was.

"So how goes it this evening?" Jules automatically washed up behind the bar as he spoke, running the tools of his trade from left to right through the hot sudsy water, the warm rinse, the cool rinse, then onto the drain boards, without once looking down.

"Kinda weird, actually," Syd replied. The words I'm divorced. I almost got ate by a wolf hung back for the moment, reined in by propriety and his own innate sense of comic timing.

"Ah-hah." A scrutinous Mona Gorilla smile. "So were you serious about that Brain?"

"Well . . ." Syd stopped and thought about it for a second. "Actually, I just kinda said it to be funny. But . . ."

Jules wiped down the bar, set the rag down, waited.

"They are really good," Syd acknowledged, musing.

Jules nodded sagely. "Delicious."

"And they do look disgusting."

"There's always that."

"But I don't usually drink anything but beer."

Frowning. "You're right."

Syd grinned. "And you're just agreeing with everything I say."

"One hundred percent."

Syd laughed, shook his world-weary head. "Now that's a professional," he said, and finally got a laugh out of Jules as well. "What the h.e.l.l. Let's do one up."

By that time, a few more people had poured in the door, were making their way to the bar. Syd turned to watch them come as Jules turned for the peach schnapps and Baileys Irish Cream. A handsome young black couple, maybe slightly overdressed. A peck of essentially harmless good ol' boys. A lonely, dark-haired, fiercely-bulimic woman in her forties, whose name Syd could never remember. Behind her, a dark figure in the doorway, its ident.i.ty as yet unclear.

When he turned back, Jules was pouring the schnapps into a five-ounce rock gla.s.s set out before him. "I love this part," the bartender said, then opened the Baileys and meticulously dribbled it into the gla.s.s.

The result was sheerest magic, purest mixological alchemy. No matter how many times he saw it, Syd never ceased to be amazed. It was way better than sea monkeys, cheaper than Claymation, tons more fun than an EPT. The second the Irish Cream hit the schnapps, it began to congeal into a brown, brain-like, undulating ma.s.s that floated in the clear liquor like an ugly fetus in amniotic fluid. Little fissures erupted across its surface, increasing in complexity as it grew. By the time Jules was finished, it even had a little brain stem. Such was his consummate skill.

Syd stared at the tiny shriveled thing in the gla.s.s, felt something oily respond deep in his bowels. Suddenly the wide-open deer, in all its glory, was back in his mind's eye. Jesus, he thought. What the h.e.l.l was I thinking?

He didn't know why he'd failed to put it together before, what perverse side of him thought this would be a good idea. But the fact was that he didn't need, just now, to see something that looked so much like his own internal organs. Much less to strain such a thing through his teeth as it tipped back down his throat.

Then Jules applied the grenadine Hemorrhage, letting thick red fluid drift down to fill the brain grooves and make them gleam. Syd cross-indexed the visual reference against his gag reflex, found himself provoked but holding steady.

He turned away, for a breath of fresh air.

And that was when he saw her.

5.

The dark shape in the doorway had paid its cover, was descending the steps toward him. That it was a she, he could clearly see.

And, dear G.o.d, what a she it was.

Syd felt suddenly like Glenn Ford in Gilda, watching Rita Hayworth for the very first time. The same stunned disbelief: closing his throat as she riveted his attention, rendering him incapable of either speaking or looking away. The same cruel certainty that he would never again-no matter how long he lived-be this close to a woman so utterly, unequivocally compelling.

She moved closer, charging the very air around her as she parted the crowd. Syd literally felt her before he saw her clearly, sensed the power implicit in her presence. Strips of light and shadow illuminated and concealed her in stages as she came. The flashes were revelations, each more startling than the last.

First, her body, emerging from silhouette: a black leather biker's jacket draped over a body-hugging mini dress, concealing her tight, excruciating curves even as it revealed just enough to stoke his imagination to flame. Her legs were black-stockinged, breathtakingly long, immaculately sculpted, altogether painful to behold. Long cascades of hair the color of blood and cinnamon caressed square and elegant shoulders, flowed past the delicate expanse of her throat. Her eyes were brilliant, backlit emeralds, burning with a feral green light; her lips were wet plush beestung dreams of glory, bite-red against her fine pale skin. Her mouth was wide and sly, the corners turned slightly downward in a naturally sardonic, inward grin. Once again, like the rest of her, so intensely intoxicating that it hurt to directly address them with his eyes.

As she turned Syd caught a glint of silver; it took him another second to register the tiny, delicate circle that pierced the rim of her left nostril. A nose ring. Jesus. It only served to underscore her aura of mystery, an exotic addition to her already overwhelming mystique.

Syd tore his gaze away and turned to Jules. Jules looked like Syd felt: slack jawed, bug-eyed with shock. All he needed was a spittle cup. Syd looked around the room, saw the exact same expression on every guy in the place.

And the other women . . .

The heat of every male glance was offset a dozen fold by the arctic glare of their companions. Singly or in pairs, alone or mated, contempt and compet.i.tion slam-danced in her wake as the mystery woman polarized and galvanized the room. Heads turned, eyes averted, elbows jammed ribs even as sneers fought to mask freshly torpedoed egos.

For her part, the stranger seemed to acknowledge their defeat even as she negated them. The message was clear, with every step she took. She was more than the most beautiful woman in the room.

She was the only woman in the room.

It was s.e.xual Darwinism at its finest, and the facts spoke for themselves. This woman was no mere cycle s.l.u.t, no brainless black-leather bimbo on the prowl for c.o.c.k. She was a G.o.ddess in motion, a pheromonal cyclone of s.e.xual heat. The most spectacular female, without a doubt, ever to set foot in this dive.

And she was coming closer.

Oh G.o.d. Syd gulped, watching her move. Feeling his flesh constrict around him. Oh G.o.d. Feeling completely unworthy in her presence. His gaze dropped down to his lap, which began to stir with a life of its own. Given his own s...o...b..ll's chance in h.e.l.l, he couldn't imagine a more irrelevant sensation.

Suddenly, he didn't want to see the lucky sonofab.i.t.c.h who had come with her, or whom she had come to meet. He knew that he would hate the miserable p.r.i.c.k, purely as a matter of principle. No matter how cool that p.r.i.c.k might turn out to be. . .

And that was when the loneliness kicked in; worse yet, the futility of even being smitten with the urge. Because, yes, he had l.u.s.ted out of his league before. And, yes, it was always a painful thing, the perfect complement to that I-am-a-piece-of-s.h.i.t feeling. To crave the unattainable was to court disaster, the total destruction of his hard-won self-esteem. He didn't need, right now, to feel any worse about himself.

Any more than she needed to be stared at by him, he realized, and felt even more like a fool. It was entirely possible that she'd come all the way out here in the hope of not getting stared at by every unemployed steelworker in the state of Pennsylvania. Already, the smoky air was filled with apelike hoots and whistles and hollers. It made him, as always, deeply embarra.s.sed for his gender. He wondered if she knew what she was getting herself into.

In that moment, he resolved to break the chain. Stop staring. Help turn the tide back to its own d.a.m.n business. He had a few things to discuss with Jules, anyway. Like his sanity, for instance. Now was as good a time as any to stop torturing himself.

Having resolved all that, he turned around to look at her again.

Only to discover that she was now looking at him.

For a second, his mind totally emptied of thought: like a flash pot had gone off between his ears, blinding his inner eye. Then thought and sight returned as one, and he was watching her scrutinize him from ten feet away: head c.o.c.ked slightly to one side, one long finger absently tracing her lower lip. Her nostrils flared, just the tiniest bit, as if she were tracking on the basis of some all-but-imperceptible scent. The nose ring gleamed and sparkled in the dim light.

Then she started to smile-with her eyes locked on his-and he got the very strange feeling that she'd somehow found what she was looking for. And he realized that he'd been mistaken about at least one other thing.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He, on the other hand, didn't have a G.o.ddam clue. "Whoa," he muttered under his breath as she took one step toward him. The word didn't begin to sum up how he felt. Panicked. Amped. Exhilarated. Confused. "Urn," he said, and then she was another step closer.

He looked abruptly away, stared hard at his lap, his knees, his boots, the floorboards beneath. He could feel her eyes upon him still. It brought sweat p.r.i.c.kling to the surface of his skin.

Look at her, he told himself, and found that he could not. He shot another quick glance at Jules, found that Jules was staring back at him, no help at all. Suddenly, he knew that the heat on his skin was not her eyes alone.

All eyes were upon him.

Upon them both.

And then he felt her proximity, the heat of her skin, as she took that final step. He could smell her: a steamy, luxuriant musk that unraveled what little remained of his composure. He could feel his pulse thud through his horning erection, a terse yet jubilant echo of his own hammering heart.

When at last he looked up, she was already beside him, leaning into the bar. She smiled at him, nailed his gaze once and for all. Her voice, when she spoke, was silken, lethal.

"Hi," she said. "Is that your brain?"

"What?"

She pointed to his drink. It took a second to track. "Ah . . ." he said, and numbly nodded yes.

Again, she smiled. "May I?"

And before he could answer, she reached across to take the gla.s.s and raise it, ever so slowly, to those lips.

But when her tongue snaked out-glistening, frighteningly long-to scoop the lump of congealed and bleeding Baileys from the gla.s.s, he could stand it no longer.

He started to laugh.

Amus.e.m.e.nt gleamed in her emerald eyes as she swallowed. "Now," she said, "you'll have to tell me why you're laughing."

"Umm . . ." Laughing some more, slowly shaking his head. "I guess it's maybe because I'm in shock."

"Ah." Waiting for him to elaborate.

"Because . . . umm I don't understand what's going on?" He hoped that, by his phrasing it as a question, she might show him some mercy.

No dice. "And what is going on?"

He laughed again, harder this time. "You're not gonna give me a f.u.c.king ounce of slack, are ya?"

At last, she laughed as well. "Well . . . no." Her eyes positively danced. Her laugh was deep and rich and dirty. What a surprise.

"Okay." The simple act of making her laugh broke the tension at some subtle but critical level. "Maybe it's because you just swallowed my brain, and I don't even know who you are."

"Ah." She took the bait, proffered her hand.

"My name is Nora."

And Syd didn't know what else to do, so he took her hand into his own. And the rush of that first contact sent a physical shudder through the muscles of his back, made the filament nerves running down his spine glow green with the light from her eyes. He looked into those eyes, searching for some clue as to her intentions, saw only wry amus.e.m.e.nt and the purest molten fire.

And he wanted to say my divorce is final. The wreckage of my life has begun to settle, and I think I might be ready to try and live again.

And he wanted to say I almost died today. Twice. Maybe three times, if you count that letter. And I am such a ma.s.s of scar tissue and damage that it's a miracle I can feel you at all.

And he wanted to say just don't lie to me. Please. That's the only thing I ask.

Because it's the one thing I don't think I could survive.

But he couldn't. And because he couldn't bring himself to find or speak the words, couldn't cough them up from the depths of his soul and hack them out into the world, he found himself at a crossroads. What he feared-more than anything-was that this would all vaporize should he try to hold on to it. What he wanted-more than anything-was to believe that a moment such as this could actually be this direct and real.

As real as the hand he now held in his own.

That hand was warm and slender, surprisingly calloused and strong. It hovered expectantly, neither giving nor taking, but simply awaiting his next move. Syd didn't know what else to do, so he brought it slowly to his lips, kissing the web of flesh that joined finger to finger to hand.

It was clear, from her eyes, that she approved. "Nora," he said, her name thick and powerful in his throat. "So what are we doing?"

"That remains to be seen," she told him, smiling. "But I think we're off to an excellent start."

6.

It didn't take long, in the grand scheme of things, to move from point A to point B. Nora was nothing if not direct. She had no interest in small talk, past the barest fundamentals: his name, his beverage of choice, did he live alone. Syd found that this was not a problem, so long as she kept touching him like that. Thus far, she had displayed no inclination to stop.

It started with the barest of fingertip contact as he handed her her drink. Nora drank Southern Comfort, neat. As he raised the gla.s.s to her grasp Nora's little finger curled into the palm of his hand, the nail grazing the calloused skin there, then raking outward as she withdrew. Her fingernail was long and sharp, and the resulting sensation set off a chain reaction in Syd's nervous system that left him visibly shaking.