Jacob
Daniel picked the bar.
Of course he did.
It was the kind of place Dallas men went when they wanted to drink too much in public but still pretend they were having a meeting. Dark leather booths. Low lighting. Old framed photos on the wall. A bartender who looked like he knew every affair in Highland Park and had never once made the mistake of being surprised.
Daniel was already there when I walked in.
No tie. Sleeves rolled back. Bourbon in front of him, untouched.
That told me enough.
I slid into the booth across from him.
“You look terrible,” I said.
Daniel looked up. “Good evening to you too.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You look like hell.”
“Then we match.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The waitress appeared before either of us had to wave her down.
“Bourbon?” she asked me.
