10
Turning away from her colleagues, Harlow checked four ways for traffic and headed to the bar, trying not to think about the adjoining street where Ryske had slithered down the wall and passed out. The last time, her first time, in Floyd’s was something of a blur, even though it hadn’t been that long ago.
Wiping her mind, prioritizing focus, this wasn’t the time to be reliving the traumatic memory of that night. She had to get her poker face on.
Harlow had never played poker, but when she walked through the corner doors of Floyd’s and paused to let her eyes adjust, she thought she did an okay job of keeping her expression blank. It wasn’t easy. Dozens of eyes scrutinized her. The place was packed. Music played on the jukebox, loud, but not as loud as the conversation filling the room.
