Sleet Banshee by S.J. Tilly

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

MEGHAN

“G

irl, I can not believe you pulled this off.” Annabelle makes jazz hands as she shuffle-runs towards me in her stilettos. “I mean, I knew you could pull it off, but this…” she gestures to the Syndicate ballroom around us. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

I grab the skirt of my dress and give her a curtsey. “Twas my pleasure, m’ lady.”

“Honestly, how can I pay you back?”

I laugh. “I did send you my bill, so you’ll be literally paying me.”

She shakes her head. “No. Not good enough. Everything here is pretty much wrapped up. Give me a few minutes to stroke a few more egos, then let’s go get drunk.”

I don’t answer right away. She’s a client, and I don’t really know her.

Annabelle tugs on my arm. “Please, please, pretty please?”

I cave. “Okay, okay. Let’s get drunk!”

Tonight’s event was seamless. The food was tasty and not overtly testicle-like. The string quartet played beautifully. Everything in the auction sold, and the donation box is overflowing. So a celebratory drink is well-earned.

I take up a post against the back wall while I wait for Annabelle. Checking the score on my phone, I see that the Sleet won, so I text Sebastian a quick congratulations. It’s the only home game this week, and then they’re back on the road tomorrow until next weekend. Just in time for the wedding.

Considering I haven’t seen Sebastian since the “brother game” it would’ve been nice to see him tonight. See him. Sleep with him. Whatever. But other than asking if I’d be at his game, he didn’t say anything about meeting up after. And after his little speech about not having time for a girlfriend, I didn’t want to pester him about hanging out at the very first availability he had. He’s the one with the tough schedule, and the no-girlfriend rule; he can reach out to me.

“Okay, I’m good to go!” Annabelle rubs her hands together as if anticipating something great. “And I just asked, the hotel’s fine if we leave our cars parked here overnight.”

“Nice planning,” I grin. “There’s lots of cool bars around, but have you ever been to the one in the basement here?”

“Here? Like in the hotel?”

“Yeah.”

Annabelle just shakes her head.

“Come on. You’re gonna love it.”

Before leaving the room, I push Annabelle towards the coat check.

“Oh, right. I suppose these guys will be gone before we’re done,” Annabelle says, as we wait for our jackets.

“True, but we’ll want them anyway.”

She cocks her head. “I thought you said the bar was in the basement.”

“It is,” I confirm. “But we need to walk outside for a bit to get there.”

“Ooo, I’m intrigued.”

Coats in hand, we exit the ballroom and work our way deeper into the hotel. The building’s old, and several additions have been added over the years, so there are lots of strange hallways and passages that are easy to get lost in.

After several minutes of what seems to be mindless wandering, Annabelle’s intrigue turns to skepticism. “Are you sure this bar is real?”

I can’t really blame her for asking, but being hard to find is kinda the whole point of a secret bar.

“Trust me, it’s here. I knew that last turn was wrong when I took it.” I wave off her concern as we turn a corner, and I see what I’m looking for. “Ah, here it is.”

Annabelle follows my lead and pulls her coat on before I push open an exterior door.

Stepping out, we let the door slam shut behind us.

“Uh, this is feeling very stabby.” Annabelle murmurs.

Admittedly, at first glance it does look a tad sketchy. We went from a luxurious warm interior to a no man’s land behind the hotel.

The wind’s cold, and it's pretty dark back here, but there’s a lone old-timey streetlamp standing sentry in the lawn, lighting the small cobblestone walkway before us.

I smile at Annabelle. “I promise to intervene between you and any potential muggers.”

“How very reassuring," she jokes before gripping my hand.

Over the wind, I can make out the sound of moving water. The Mississippi River is just a few dozen yards downhill.

We follow the path around another corner of the odd shaped building and are met with another flickering streetlamp. It’s light illuminates a worn wooden door, tucked into the lowest part of the back wall.

“Well, I’ll be fucked,” Annabelle whispers to herself.

Stopping in front of the door, I knock a quick tap tap-tap against the wood.

“This is so fucking cool!” Annabelle bounces next to me, like a kid about to meet Santa.

The door creaks open in front of us and I put a palm on Annabelle’s back to move her forward. We silently walk past the large suit-clad doorman and down a narrow brick hallway. As we advance, sound starts to fill the space.

Taking the final turn at the end of the hall, we step into a dimly lit 1920’s speakeasy.

The entire far wall is lined with a worn wooden bar. Behind which, all the bartenders are wearing white shirts, snug black button up vests, and black arm bands. Most of the barstools are full, but there are low wooden tables filling up the room, a third of which are empty. One of the walls is stacked with whiskey barrels, and there’s a piano in the corner, currently being played by a woman in a tasseled black dress.

Unlike some modern remakes, this room is nearly original. It’s dark. The ceilings are low. The furniture is simple. It’s not glamorous, but it is amazing.

I look over to see Annabelle’s mouth hanging open, and I flick her chin.