Depth Perception (7 page)

It seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd been bursting with dreams and ambition and the utter certainty that he was going to succeed if only by the sheer force of his will. Nick might have grown up poor, but be damn well hadn't liked it, and that discontent had bred ambition into his blood. At twenty, there had been no doubt in his mind that he would one day own a restaurant the same caliber as Arnaud's or Commander's Palace, and there wasn't a soul on this sweet earth big enough or strong enough to stop him. He hadn't counted on hooking up with a scheming partner and a two-timing woman ....

Trying hard not to think of what a blind fool he'd been, Nick twirled the shot glass, slammed it onto the scarred bar, and filled it to overflowing with cheap rum and a thick wedge of lemon. "Dark rum with a twist. Two bucks."

Someone shoved three dollars at him. Nick stuffed the tip into his fanny pack. placed the other two in the cash register. He glanced up to see a sunburned man wearing a muscle shirt and Tabasco cap ask for a draft. Nick snagged a mug from the ice machine, shoved it beneath the nozzle, and filled it to the rim.

It was his first day on the job, and the place was as hectic as Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday. But once Nick had settled down and found his rhythm, his years of experience had come pouring back. He was good at the bar. He knew his drinks, knew how to hustle. He enjoyed the contact with people. And if he closed his eyes, he could almost make himself believe he was back at The Tropics ....

"You keep up that shit, and I'm going to fire all my help and turn this joint over to you."

Nick looked up to see Mike Pequinot lift the pass-through door and limp behind the bar. "Hell of a business you do here," Nick said.

"Helps that we're the only bar in town. Pequinot poured dark rum from a bottle of top-shelf stuff he kept hidden for his personal use and slammed it back. "Tanya came in a couple of minutes ago."

Nick didn't let himself react at the mention of his ex-wife, but he felt the quick rise of tension. She was the one person in Bellerose he didn't want to see. Especially if she was fueled up on cheap booze and God only knew what else.

"I'll watch my back," he said.

Pequinot slapped him on the back. "And your front."

 For a few minutes Nick concentrated on his customers. A draft. A hurricane. Change the keg. Replenish the ice. Another shot of bourbon. Change for a ten dollar bill. But his thoughts kept going back to Tanya, and they were troubled. The last time he'd seen her was the day she'd walked out of the prison visitor's room after telling him she was filing for divorce. She'd been gripping little Brandon's hand so hard the boy's fingers were white. His son had looked at him over his shoulder and waved. Nick hadn't been able to do anything but stand there and let them go. He'd had no way of knowing it would be the last time he saw his son.

In the two years since, he'd been able to forgive her for walking out on him. As desperately as he'd needed those visits, he'd known prison was no place for a little boy. Nick had been able to forgive her for sleeping with his business partner. He'd even been able to forgive her for testifying against him and helping to convict him of a crime he hadn't committed. But the one thing Nick hadn't been able to forgive her for was letting their son die. For letting a little boy wander into the bayou and drown in a deep pool of water. He knew that wasn't fair; he knew sometimes bad things happened, no matter how careful a parent was. But right or wrong, he blamed her. He would never forgive her. And in some small corner of his mind, he hated her for it.

"I never thought I'd see Nick Bastille behind the bar at The Blue Gator serving up Mike Pequinot's cheap booze."

Dread snapped through him at the sound of his ex-wife's drawl. Nick glanced up to see her standing at the bar directly opposite him, and an emotion he couldn't quite identify rushed through him like a shot of bad whiskey. Tanya Bastille had once been beautiful, with vivid blue eyes, a sensuous mouth, and yards of blond hair that fell like silk halfway down her back. She was tall and slender with the kind of body that could drive a man just a little bit insane if he wasn't careful. Looking at her now, he barely recognized the young woman who'd once held his heart in the palm of her hand.

The years had not been kind to her. Skin that had once glowed with health had gone sallow and sagged like cheap leather from her high-cheekbones. The heavy makeup did little to accentuate eyes that had gone hard with bitterness. Her hair was still long, but she'd bleached it platinum, and it looked as brittle as her smile.

Nick knew the lines etched into her face were not from age. Grief gave a person a distinctive look that was hard to describe. He recognized it because he saw the same thing when he looked in the mirror. He knew firsthand how grief hollowed a person out. How it could age a person before their time. If not on the outside, then on the inside where the scars were visible only to those who shared them.

Tanya hadn't yet seen her thirtieth birthday, but she looked a decade older. There was a falseness to a smile that had once been guileless and engaging. A hard edge to a face that had once been soft. Eyes that had once been pretty were glassy with the effects of alcohol or whatever drug she used to get through the day. He could tell from the size of her pupils that even though it wasn't yet six o'clock, she was already well on her way to oblivion.

"You got anything stronger than alcohol back there?" she drawled.

"Just the usual legal stuff," he said with the same easy tone he used with all the customers.

"You always did make the best hurricanes, Nicky. Why don't you mix me up one like you used to?"

"You look like maybe you've had enough."

"Honey, I'm just getting warmed up." She smiled a too bright smile. "Make it a double, will you?"

Turning away from her, Nick reached for a tall glass and began to mix, taking it easy on the alcohol. He knew from experience that even a sober Tanya could spell trouble. An intoxicated Tanya could make a tornado look like a Sunday picnic.

"So, how long you been out?" she asked.

"Two days."

"Hmmm. How long's it been, Nicky? A couple of years?"

Nick knew exactly how long it had been, right down to the hour. Some days he could still feel that internal clock ticking silently inside him, counting out the seconds to freedom.

He slid the tall glass across the bar. Never taking her eyes from his, she picked it up, puckered her lips around the straw, and drank deeply, ''Ah, that's good. You still got the touch, don't you?"

Nick didn't say anything, but he could tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't going to go away. “That's three bucks," he said.

"How have you been?" she asked, digging into the tiny purse slung over her shoulder.

"I think you know how I've been."

"You're still angry."

"Look, we're busy as hell tonight—"

"Too busy for your ex-wife, huh?"

''That's three bucks for the drink," he repeated.

She smiled, but it was the smile of a piranha with evil things on its mind. She'd zipped the purse, and he knew she had no intention of paying. He figured three dollars was a small price to pay to get her the hell out of there. But he had the sinking feeling it wasn't going to be that easy.

"I didn't even know you were in town until Jo Nell Jenkins over at the bank told me you'd come in to straighten out Dutch's accounts." She suckled the straw. “I can't believe you let me hear it from a complete stranger."

"I didn't come back to Bellerose for you, Tanya. In case you've forgotten, we're divorced."

"We may not be married legally, but we've still got that bond, you know? I mean, come on, you were my first. We had a good time, Nicky. We had a son together."

A wave of fury swept through him at the mention of Brandon. He didn't want to talk about his son. He didn't want her to speak his name. Especially not in a place like this when she was drunk and needy, and his patience were wire thin.

"There is no bond," he said curtly. “Not anymore."

"You're angry because I walked out on you."

Nick was a hell of a lot more than angry. He was furious, but it didn't have a damn thing to do with her walking out on him. ''Tanya ...”

"I had a little boy to think of, Nicky."

Because in the four years they were married she had never thought of anyone but herself, Nick ignored the statement. “This isn't the place to discuss this."

“Why not?" She made a sweeping motion to encompass the bar and all its patrons. "It's not like what happened in New Orleans is a huge secret in this town."

"What happened is between us."

"You're being an uppity prick just like you always were."

Nick knew he was a fool for engaging her. Even more of a fool for letting her get to him. He was playing into her hands, giving her exactly what she wanted. But she'd always known which buttons to push, and tonight she was pushing those buttons with the proficiency of a master hacker.  

"If you don't like the company, maybe you ought to take your drink and go." Grabbing the towel he'd slung over his shoulder, he began to wipe down the bar, hating it that he was so angry that he was shaking inside.

Tanya watched him, sipping her drink, a sleek cat playing with a mouse. "It's hard coming back to a place like this after living the high life, isn't it?"

Doing his utmost to ignore her, he bent to retrieve a tray of freshly rinsed glasses and began to towel them dry.

"Well, now you have a taste of what I've had to contend with the last six years. I went from a four-bedroom house in the Garden District to this dump.” Gesturing at the hodgepodge of patrons, she threw her head back and laughed. "How's that for irony?"

He wanted to point out that their losing the house in New Orleans had more to do with her and his scheming partner framing him, but he knew she'd probably already justified her actions in her mind, so he didn't bother. Tanya was the kind of person who, if she heard her own lies often enough, would believe them.

"I think it's a pretty fitting irony,” he said.

"Don't get nasty with me, Nicky."

A burly man in faded coveralls asked for a beer. Nick gave him a nod, snagged a frozen mug, and filled it.

"You showed me how the other half lives, then you get yourself thrown into prison and left me and little Brandon with nothing."

Nick closed his eyes briefly at the mention of his son. "I've got to work. Tanya"

"Don't be such a prick. You can spare a minute for me."

"I've nothing to say to you." He slid the mug to the man in coveralls and collected two dollars. ''If you don't hit the road, I'm going to have Mike show you the door."

 "Mike won't throw me out. I'm his best customer." Her lips curved. "Did I ever tell you he fucked me in the men's room once? Bent me over the sink and stuck it in and started grunting and sweating like some fat three-legged pig."

Needing to put some distance between them before he lost his temper, Nick turned away and began stacking mugs on the shelf below the bar.

"Don't turn you back on me, you self-righteous son of a bitch."

Sighing in resignation. he turned to her, gave her a hard look. "This isn't the place for one of your tantrums."

"That's where you're wrong. Nicky." Tossing her head, she looked around, made a sweeping motion with her arms. "This is the perfect place for a knock-down-drag-out. Half the people in this dump would pay a week's salary to see us go a round or two."

"I'm not interested in going a round with you.”

Her smile sharpened to a razor's edge. "Oh, honey, going a round with me is the one thing you could never resist."

"You overestimate your charms. You always have."

An ugly emotion he couldn't quite identify flared in her eyes. "You think you had it rough in prison? Do you think it's been easy for me being back here all by myself and having to start all over again? I had no money. No job. No place to live except that goddamn trailer."

Realizing the situation was getting out of control. Nick straightened and looked around for Mike Pequinot.

"Let me tell you how it's been," she said with sudden emotion. "I've spent the last six years working in that shit-hole motel on the interstate. My salary and tips barely make the rent. I use food stamps. My car is a piece of shit. I need new tires—"

"Maybe you ought to stop spending your money on booze."

She went on as if she hadn't heard him, her voice cracking. "I miss my baby so much I can't stand it, Nicky. Nothing has been the same for me since Brandon."

Just hearing the name hurt. Pain that was bright red in intensity and so bone deep that it took his breath. "Don't bring him into this," Nick ground out.

An emotion he could only describe as hatred flared hotly in her eyes. "Oh, I forgot. That's how you deal with problems. Don't talk about them, and
poof!
they disappear. God, Nick, if you could put that in a bottle and sell it, you'd be rich."

"Tanya, you're drunk .”

"I may be drunk, but at least I'm alive. At least I'm not dead inside like you.”

"Why don't you go home and sleep it off?"

"You've always been a holier-than-thou-art son of a bitch, and you still are. I guess those years behind bars didn't do a damn thing for that high-and-mighty attitude of yours. Even broke you still look at everyone down your nose.

"Well. look at you now, Nicky. You're nothing but a second-rate loser ex-con working in a shit hole, just like me. You're broke. Back on the farm and living with your crazy old man. You always thought you were better than me, didn't you? Now I guess everyone in this town knows you're not."

Several people standing at the bar had noticed the exchange and were staring. their eyes alight in anticipation of a brewing fight. ''Take your drink and go," he said.

She ignored him. 'The last time I saw you, you weren't quite so high and mighty, were you, Nicky? You remember that day, don't you?"

"Shut your goddamn mouth."

"If my memory serves me, I'm pretty sure you got down on your knees and begged me to stay, didn't you?"