8 STERLINGThursday night, I head upstairs to the rooftop bar of the nightclub where Camryn suggested we meet. I’ve arrived early, wanting to get a table so I’m ready when she arrives.
It’s not a place I frequent regularly, but I’ve been here once or twice over the years. Its clientele is mostly single twenty-somethings looking to cut loose after a day at work. It’s known for its happy hour specials and large appetizer menu.
A sleek long stainless-steel bar top runs the length of one wall, bar stools lining it. Instead, I choose one of the high-top tables that sit under strands of white lights. The evening sky has turned dark, and the night air is cool but not yet cold.
This week dragged by at a snail’s pace. Between work and seeing the inside of a courtroom more times than I would like,
