Chapter 4
"Are you okay?"
Clint looked up, surprised at the question and the way the tone in her voice had settled and softened. She was pretty drunk, he realised, he could see it in her eyes - she held her drink well though he had to give her that because she hadn’t really shown it until now - but this slightly less wired version of Rosie was a lot more interesting. He wondered why she hadn’t just left.
"I’m fine, kid. You okay? I promise I don’t make a habit of abusing women."
"Do you need me to call anyone? "
"No, I’m good, " It was his turn to look confused. "Why are you asking?"
She gave him a long hard, stare before she spoke but when she did she sounded stone cold sober. "Because you look like you’ve seen some shit - you look like the squaddies at home that come back from posting overseas that cry in the shower and lose their temper at the least little thing and beat their wives."
"So now I beat my fictional wife as well as cheat on her? Looks like I’m getting divorced..."
They both smiled at that.
"Sounds like you’ve had personal experience of that?" he ventured.
"Not me, my sister. Her husband served two terms in Afghanistan. Poor bastard ended up in a mental hospital. I can’t imagine what he went through but I took her to A and E enough times that my sympathy is limited."
"A and E?"
"Accident and emergency."
"Are you afraid of me, Rosie?"
"I don’t think you’re going to punch me in the face if that’s what you mean but I’m not exactly sure what you are capable of. If you need some ...help...I’m happy to call someone for you. "
"I’m all good, Rosie, thanks anyway. It’s just been a tough week. I’m sorry about earlier - I hope it doesn’t bruise."
"A tough week? What’s a tough week for an assassin? Did you miss your target? Or is the problem that you didn’t miss?"
"I never miss."
"Hmm." She uttered the sound as if he had just confirmed something for her.
Rosie seemed to be weighing him up. Finally she swung her knees in and stretched across the table, her fingers brushing his as they wiggled the beer glass from his hand. She gave him a pointed look and drained what was left in his glass - nearly a half - in one long steady gulp. Her face screwed up at the taste and she pushed the other glass, still full, across the table to him.
"See. Not spiked."
It was an unexpected and strangely touching gesture.
"So I’m the hardest target in here huh?" He took a mouthful from the full glass.
"Yep. The guy at the bar said you come in a couple of times a week and barely speak to him never mind anyone else. "
"Probably true. So what do you need to do to win the game... or whatever it is?"
"Doesn’t matter."
"I feel like I owe you. So what can I do...?"
"Okay. The guy didn’t think you’d even tell me your name - which you didn’t actually but never mind - so he said if I got a kiss out of you he’d give us a free bottle of champagne. "
"A kiss?"
"You don’t have to it’s fine."
"You wanna win the game?"
"Yeh but ...really, it’s fine. I’m going back to my friends. It was ...mostly ...nice to meet you, Clint. Hope your week gets better."
And with that she slipped away through the crowd and this time he was sure she wasn’t coming back.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.