Chapter 3 Holy Water Doesn’t Burn Him
Chapter three
Holy Water Doesn’t Burn Him
The bar shirt smells like him—smoke, soap, and something darker. It hangs off me like borrowed armor, soft in the shoulders, frayed at the seams. I knot it at my waist to keep it from swallowing me whole.
We just got back from the motel, my whole life stuffed into a duffel bag and a torn grocery sack. He said, “Welcome home, little rabbit,” and handed me the shirt without looking too closely.
Now I’m standing behind his bar in jeans and borrowed cotton, pretending I know how to exist here. Pretending this isn’t the safest I’ve felt in months.
The bar is dim and still, dust motes hanging in the golden slant of afternoon light. Bottles glint behind the counter like stained glass in confession. Cain moves through the space as if he had built it from blood and bone. Maybe he did.
“This is the backup register,” he says, tapping a battered old cash drawer under the counter. “If it jams, hit the left side twice. Not once. Not three times. Just twice.”
I nod, fingers resting on the wood. It’s warm, polished smooth from years of elbows and spilled secrets.
He opens a cabinet below the sink and points. “Bleach spray. Rags. Mops are in the closet down the hall. Bathrooms are your enemy. Don’t look too closely.”
“Noted.”
He glances up. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—humor, maybe. It vanishes quick.
“This ain’t a fancy place,” he says. “Locals mostly. Regulars. You get the occasional asshole, but they don’t come back twice.”
“Because you’re so charming?”
“Because I’ve got a shotgun under the bar,” he says, deadpan. “Which I’m about to show you.”
He moves behind the counter and gestures for me to follow. I do—warily, but not from fear. Not of him, anyway.
He crouches behind the bar and pulls open a low drawer. Nestled inside is a matte black shotgun, sleek and solid, as if it knows exactly what it’s for.
“It’s loaded,” he says. “Always is. Safety’s on. You’ll know when it’s not.”
I raise a brow. “You know I have a Glock, right?”
“I know you carry a Glock,” he says, standing slowly. “Doesn’t mean you know what to do when you’ve got a wall of drunk noise and one twitchy bastard reaching under his jacket.”
My grip tightens on the edge of the counter. “I know how to shoot.”
His eyes meet mine—flat, unreadable. “Good. Then this is just extra insurance.”
He hands me the shotgun.
It’s heavier than I expected. I steady it, familiar but unfamiliar—like riding someone else’s bike. My fingers shift along the grip, muscle memory whispering back.
Cain’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Tool, Trouble. That’s all it is. You don’t panic holding a hammer, do you?”
“No,” I murmur. “But I’ve never had to point one at someone’s chest.”
“You’ve already done that,” he says, voice low. “The minute you opened the door holding steel. Now we make sure if the time comes, your hand doesn’t shake.”
His fingers brush mine as I hand it back.
Something flickers under my ribs, like a match being struck in a sealed room.
I pull away first. Fast. He doesn’t call me on it.
He stows the shotgun and straightens. “You’ll get the hang of it,” he says. “You’re not soft, Mags. You just forgot.”
Cain moves like the bar is a church and he’s the only one still saying the prayers.
He wipes the counter in long, smooth strokes. Polishes glassware like it matters, like it means something. Every bottle he shelves goes in a particular order—whiskey first, top shelf, labels out. Vodka. Tequila. Rum. A little shrine of sin and regret, all gleaming under low amber lights.
I watch from the other side of the bar, perched on a stool too high for comfort, wearing his too-big shirt tied at the waist. It smells like him—clean linen and firewood and something metallic underneath.
Cain glances at me once. “You plan on working, Trouble, or just supervising?”
“Just observing the rituals,” I smirk. “You treat this place like a confessional.”
He doesn’t respond. Just rinses another glass and sets it on the rack.
“So…” I start, casual as I can. “You own this place?”
He nods.
“Always wanted to be a bartender?”
His mouth twitches. “Wanted to be a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
He doesn’t answer that one. Just flicks a rag over a bottle of scotch like it personally offended him.
“You ever kill anyone?”
He looks up—slow and deliberate. Our eyes lock.
I hold my breath.
Then he says, “Do you want the truth?”
I don’t blink. “Yes.”
“Yes.”
One word. No drama. No apology.
He goes back to wiping the bar like he just told me the weather.
I swallow.
“Did they deserve it?”
He finally sets the rag down. Leans on the bar with both hands. His knuckles are scarred, tattoos faded across his fingers—words I haven’t fully read yet.
“Every inch.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Dense. Almost sacred.
Then he says, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Mags.”
“I’m not.”
“You should be.”
"I know," I say, and I do. I should be afraid of this man with his prison tattoos and confessions of murder. I should be running in the opposite direction.
Instead, I lean forward. "But I'm not."
Cain studies me for a long moment, his eyes traveling over my face like he's trying to read something written in invisible ink. "You're either very brave or very stupid, little rabbit."
"Maybe both," I admit with a shrug. "But I'm still standing."
A low chuckle escapes him, the sound rusty like it's not used often. "That you are." He tosses the rag over his shoulder and checks his watch. "We open in thirty. You ready for a crash course in bartending?"
For the next half hour, Cain walks me through the basics—how to pour a proper draft without too much head, where the well liquors sit, which regulars get which drinks.
His hands move with practiced efficiency, demonstrating techniques I try to mimic.
When our fingers brush as he hands me a bottle, I feel that same flicker under my ribs, but I don't pull away this time.
"What about him?" I ask, the question spilling out before I can think better of it. "What happens when Warren shows up?"
Cain's hands go still on the bar. The rag stops mid-wipe, and his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Not if. When," he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble that vibrates through my chest. "Smart girl."
I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry. "He always finds me. It's what he does."
Cain sets down the glass he's been polishing, his movements deliberate, controlled. "When he comes in—and yeah, he will—you go straight to the back. No hesitation. No trying to be brave. You hear his voice, see his face, you move."
I nod, my fingers tapping nervously against the polished wood. The thought of Warren walking through those doors makes my stomach clench. What if he comes tonight? What if he's already watching the bar? What if—
"Hey." Cain's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You're going pale on me."
I try to respond, but my lungs suddenly feel too small, like they're collapsing in on themselves. The bar starts to blur around the edges, the bottles becoming smears of color behind Cain's concerned face.
"I can't—" My voice comes out thin and reedy. "What if he—"
Cain moves around the bar in three long strides. He's beside me in seconds, one hand on my lower back, the other gently turning my face toward his.
"Look at me, little rabbit," he murmurs, his deep voice anchoring me to the present. "Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I try to follow his instructions, but my chest is too tight, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free.
"That's it," he encourages as I manage a shaky breath. "One more. In and out."
His hand on my back radiates warmth, steady and grounding. I focus on the sensation, using it as an anchor against the rising tide of panic. His face is close to mine, eyes dark and steady, refusing to let me drift away.
"I'm here," I whisper, my voice stronger than I expected. "I'm okay."
Cain's thumb brushes lightly against my cheek, the callused pad rough against my skin. "That's my girl."
The praise sends a different kind of heat through me, settling low in my belly. I'm suddenly aware of how close he is, the scent of him—cedar and whiskey and clean sweat—surrounding me. His eyes drop briefly to my mouth, then back up, something shifting in their depths.
For one breathless moment, I think he might kiss me. Part of me wants him to, craves the contact, the connection, something real to drive away the fear that's been my constant companion for months.
But he pulls back, his hand falling away from my face. "Good," he says, voice rougher than before. "We open in five."
The door swings open with a creak, startling me out of the moment. I turn to see an older man with salt-and-pepper hair shuffling in, his weathered face breaking into a smile when he spots Cain.
"Early as always, Hank," Cain calls out, stepping back from me and returning to his place behind the bar.
Hank chuckles, settling onto a stool three spaces down from mine. "Clock says four o'clock. Sign says you open at four. I'm right on time." His eyes drift to me, curious but not intrusive. "New face?"
"This is Mags," Cain says, already reaching for a glass and filling it with amber liquid without being asked. "She's working here now."
"Nice to meet you, sweetheart," Hank says, his voice kind, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't let this grumpy bastard work you too hard."
I manage a smile, grateful for the distraction from my earlier panic. "I'll try not to."
Cain slides the whiskey across the bar to Hank, then leans in close.
His lips barely move as he murmurs something in the older man's ear.
I can't make out the words, but Hank's expression shifts instantly from relaxed to alert.
He nods once, his weathered hand tightening around his glass.
Then he turns, looking back at the door with careful nonchalance.