Monica's Interrogation

I’m perched on my stool, gin and tonic sweating in my hand, the ice half-melted. Monica’s across from me, her long brunette hair catching the dim bar lights, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She’s got that classy vibe—tailored blazer, skinny jeans, a silver necklace that glints when she moves—but not so posh she looks out of place in this dive. Her big round brown eyes are still a little tight, annoyed from whatever went down by the bathrooms. Ryan’s next to her, his jock bulk taking up too much space and I can't resist to spare a glance at him before I focus on Monica’s fidgeting fingers.

“What the hell happened with that guy, Mon?” I ask, swirling my drink, trying to sound casual but curious. “You looked ready to deck someone when you got back.”

Monica rolls her eyes, leaning forward, her athletic frame—toned but still curvy, like she could run a 5K and then pose for a magazine—shifting on the stool. “Ugh, he was just… weird, okay? Some dude, maybe a bit younger than us, I dunno. Had this accent—British, I think? Hard to tell with the music blaring.”

Ryan’s eyebrows shoot up, and he sets his beer down with a thud. “A Brit? Here? What’d he want?” His voice has that protective edge, like he’s ready to square up with half the bar.

Monica waves a hand. “Chill, babe. He was asking about some college girl who went missing, like I’d know anything. I told him I graduated two years ago, but he kept pushing, all intense, staring at me like I’m hiding her in my purse.”

I snort, taking a sip of my gin. “Sounds like he might be MI6 or some shit? Scoping out missing coeds in a dump like this? Why not?” I lean back, smirking, but my sarcasm’s half-hearted. Something about it nags at me. It does sound weird a bit.

Monica laughs, but it’s short, her brown eyes flicking to the crowd. “Right? He was probably just drunk. But yeah, super nosy.”

Ryan’s not laughing. He’s scanning the bar, his jaw tight, like he’s trying to spot this guy through the sea of bodies. “You see him now, Mon? Point him out.” His voice is low, all macho, and I roll my eyes, catching Monica’s glance.

“Ryan, relax,” she says, touching his arm, her voice softening but still a little snappy. “He’s gone. It wasn’t a big deal, just annoying.” She flips her hair back, and I notice how her blazer hugs her waist, giving her that perfect mix of sporty and feminine.

“Fine,” Ryan mutters, but he’s still glancing around, his fingers tapping the table. “Just sayin’, you don’t need randos hassling you.”

I raise my glass, smirking. “Here’s to randos. Keeps life interesting.” Monica giggles, and Ryan shakes his head, a small grin breaking through. We clink drinks, and the tension eases, the bar’s noise swallowing us again. Monica’s posture loosens, her long legs crossing under the table, and I catch a glimpse of her ankle boots—sleek, practical, but with a hint of style. She’s always been like that, put-together but real, the kind of girl who kept me from totally imploding back in college.

“So, what else you hiding, Mon?” I tease, nudging her foot with mine. “Any other secret agent encounters?”

She sticks her tongue out and her big eyes are sparkling now. “Nope. Just my usual charm pulling in the weirdos. Your turn—any hot gossip from the office?”

I groan, slumping back. “Unless you count my boss’s coffee breath, nah. Same old paper-pushing bullshit.” Ryan chuckles, and we fall into easy chatter—Monica dishing about her new yoga class, Ryan bragging about some gym PR. Drinks keep coming, and I’m feeling the gin, a warm buzz that used to start most evenings once.

Ryan’s phone lights up on the table, buzzing loud enough to cut through our chatter. He grabs it, squinting at the screen. “Well, my boys are at O’Malley’s. Gotta roll.” He stands, clapping a hand on Monica’s shoulder. “You two good?”

“Yeah, babe, go,” Monica says, waving him off. Ryan gives me a nod, all protective-bro vibes, and heads out, his broad frame parting the crowd like an icebreaker.

I lean closer to Monica now, the bar feeling a little emptier without Ryan’s bulk. “Okay, real talk,” I say, lowering my voice, my glass cold against my palm. “That bathroom dude—anything else you didn’t wanna say in front of Mr. Hero? Like, was he actually a creep or just… weird?”

Monica sighs, twirling a strand of her long hair, her eyes meeting mine. “Not, like, threatening, I guess. Just… off. Kept asking if I knew anyone acting weird, like, not leaving their house during the day, that kinda shit. I was like, dude, I’m not your snitch.” She shrugs, but her fingers tighten on her glass, betraying a flicker of unease.

I laugh, trying to brush it off, but it lands flat. “Sounds like some B-movie crap,” I say, forcing a grin. Deep down, though, it sticks—those words, not leaving during the day, what the hell? I shake it off, taking another sip. “Whatever. He’s probably just high.”

“Yeah, probably,” Monica says, but she’s not fully sold, her lips pursed as she scans the crowd again. Her blazer’s unbuttoned now, showing a fitted tank top that hugs her athletic frame, and I can’t help but think she’s too damn pretty for this place, like she belongs somewhere fancier.

We keep talking, ordering another round—vodka soda for her, some pinky gin cocktail for me. She’s dishing about some work drama, her hands flying and animated despite the earlier annoyance. I’m half-listening, half-watching the bar, the buzz of booze and bodies making my head swim. Monica’s laughter pulls me back, but at the same time a weird feeling that I'm being watched occasionally grows.