Chapter 3 Ryker
Ryker
PRESENT
Time doesn’t heal a thing.
Guilt, anger, regret, grief – all emotions they told me that time can heal.
They’re wrong.
Time’s only allowed that shit to heighten, expand or become so intense that I can taste it. I’m reminded of each of these worthless feelings every time I come back to Booker fucking Bay. Even more when I ride past where it happened. The images bleed into my mind and devour me from the inside out.
Guilt doesn’t just haunt me. It consumes me, creeping up my throat in the middle of the night and suffocating me. Parts of me died that night, only to visit me in my nightmares.
Time hasn’t granted me healing. It’s given me rage.
It’s been four years of looking for him and never getting within reach.
The small upside is he’s finally getting sloppy and his trail is getting easier to trace.
Double plus: the latest maggot in his infestation of a crew has just walked into my bar and is now perched at one of the red-wood poseur tables.
While I won’t show it on my face, the desperation for my hunt to be over causes knives of apprehension to skewer my insides.
Every bone in my body is screaming for me to just grab the man by the collar and demand answers, but that’s not the plan.
His crew are tight-lipped – I know that from beating the last guy senseless – and even as the lackey writhed in his own blood, he spat out lies that sent us on a wild-goose chase.
We have to play this one smart, so I need to calm myself down.
Behind the bar, I pour two fingers of whiskey and drain it. Beside me, one of the bartenders, Rose, gives a small smile as she pours a Guinness. Her acrylic nails clack against the faucet handle as she lifts it up to a stop.
‘Shoot,’ she says, grabbing a drip tray. ‘Boss, d’ya think we could get this faucet looked at? Hasn’t stopped all night.’
Drip.
That sound.
I pour another shot of whiskey and bring it to my lips but pause.
Drip.
My eyes twitch, my brain short-circuiting.
Drip.
I battle with the darkness clouding my vision.
‘Boss?’ Rose snaps me out of the episode I was about to enter. I down my whiskey before giving her a nod and placing the glass in one of the wash racks.
‘I’ll get it fixed in the morning. Do we have enough staff on tonight?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got it all covered.’
I take in the scene. Floor-to-ceiling timber cladding and warm dim lights line the walls of my bar, Luxe.
It was my dad’s but he passed it to me, probably because it was one of the worst-performing venues in his register of businesses.
My parents made it clear that this venture was just meant to keep me out of trouble – they need the Edwards name clear for whatever overseas investments they’re seeing to.
I doubt they expected me to turn it into a hotspot of Empire City.
The entire left wall of the open space is glass cabinets filled with wines from across the world.
Patrons relax on the black velvet sofas with cocktails in hand, their stuffy suits and fancy watches telling me everything I need to know.
There’s even someone wearing a fucking fedora and trench coat.
They’re the kind of people who turn the conversation back to focus on them any chance they get.
Right now, at eleven o’clock on a Friday night, there’s not an empty booth. Every suspended fireplace is lit and every glass is full. The scent of rum mixes with smoke, earthy and rich.
I check my pocket for the tiny GPS sticker I’ve got ready to go. Tyler had better be right about this.
It’s taken a year to find this sandy-haired maggot.
The guy’s about my age, and I’ve heard he’s recently started coaching basketball at ECU.
I never played against him when I was with the Kings, but I think I recognise his face from the division below.
Regardless, he’s been on his phone the whole night, texting away.
A girl in a low-cut dress approaches him, her friend excitedly urging her forward.
‘Are you Alexander Barnes?’ the tall blonde speaks.
He side-eyes her, taking in her frame, before turning with a smug smirk to give her his full attention.
‘I am.’ Alexander takes her hand in his, laying a kiss on the back of it.
‘I knew it was you.’
‘Fans of the game?’
‘We loved watching you back then! But also, I am sorry about your injury.’
The words earn them a sour look from Alexander, and it’s then that I notice he’s standing gingerly on his left side.
Before they lose his interest, the blonde girl loops her arm though his, letting her breasts press against him. ‘Listen, we hear you can get us into The Tropics …’
The Tropics?
My ears prick up. I was there last night and didn’t see this maggot or him.
Though I saw my Little Suspect, which was a nice surprise.
Four years have passed and Gianna Brooks still has me in a chokehold.
I bite back a smile at the memory of how bravely she approached, only to come to a standstill when I removed my helmet and recognition settled in.
I did enjoy the emotions that danced across her pretty little face: shock, denial, relief, apprehension and lust. And my favourite, saved for last: wrath.
She stormed off without a word, but I can still taste her tears on my tongue. So sweet.
My cock swells at the thought. Fuck. This is not the place or the time.
‘I can’t get you into The Tropics,’ Alexander says, ‘but I can get you into something better.’ He wraps a hand around the girl’s waist, pulling her closer to whisper in her ear. I grip the edge of the bar benchtop, near ready to jump over it.
‘—and then I said, Barry, I know the cost of production was a hundred gee, but we need to reshoot, so let’s do it again.
’ Two suited patrons saunter up, blocking my view as they stand in front of me on the other side of the bar.
Irritation simmers in my gut as they blabber on before one of them throws their order my way.
‘Two martinis. Shaken, not stirred. Am I right?’
His friend laughs at his lame joke. They sound pompous, like the biggest problem in their lives would be a broken pool heater. I give them a blank look before Rose hastily takes over, pouring their pathetic drinks. They shuffle across to the left, restoring my clear view, but I need to get closer.
I walk out from behind the bar and over to the wall of windows overlooking the beach below. Silhouettes of skyscrapers kiss the stars. Empire City’s buildings are lined right up to the ocean, nestled on the edge of the void.
Pressing my knuckles against the glass, I gaze over the city while straining to hear Alexander beside me.
Annoyance snaps through my body at the fact that I can’t hear him as clearly as I’d like, but the racers around here talk, especially if there’s a race on.
And if he’s back, if he’s really here … I’ll make sure it’ll finally be over.
I just need to keep tabs on my new friend so I’ll be led right to him.
In my periphery, Alexander makes a move. ‘Drinks, ladies?’
I push off the window just as Alexander gets up and turns. His eyes have returned to his phone screen, sending him walking right into my chest. His liquor spills all over his shirt, staining the white with brown, but it’s the clatter of his phone against the slate tiles that makes me giddy.
Showtime.
A pair of heels step back as I pick up the device, discreetly placing the sticker on the back of it and running my hand over the screen to make it look like I’m dusting it off. The GPS tracker is secure, and transparent enough that no one will be able to tell it’s even on there.
‘Fuck,’ Alexander snaps, wiping at his shirt. ‘You should watch where you’re going.’
My teeth grind at his tone as he snatches his phone from my hand. ‘And you should keep your head up.’
He stops brushing at the stain, his eyes whip up to meet mine. ‘Wanna repeat that?’
I pause, interested to see what he’ll do next, and unsurprised when he lumbers into me.
Just what I need, a hot-headed maggot to test my patience further. I straighten, looking down my nose at him. Alexander is about an inch shorter than me, but his fists clench tight by his sides. I make a point of placing mine in the pockets of my jeans.
‘I said, you should keep your head up,’ I repeat.
Alexander’s nostrils flare as he cranes his neck back to meet my gaze. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and I realise he’s as high as a kite.
‘This is Versace!’
I could end this bullshit, send my fucking fist into his face right now and demand to know where his boss is.
Instead, I let a grin break across my face.
‘It’s not the first stain on your bargain-bin find.
’ I arch a brow at the faded ink stain where a security tag would have been.
Not only is Alexander high as fuck and an injured ex-division-two basketball player, but he also seems to be broke yet trying to keep up an image.
He shoves me, but instead of knocking me off balance, he’s the one stumbling backward.
‘Bad knee?’ I taunt, hands still in my pockets.
His fingers have barely wrapped around the collar of my shirt before two of my bouncers are ripping him away.
‘What the fuck?’ spits Alexander.
I wave my bouncers off. ‘It’s fine. He’s a … friend.’ They release him immediately, taking a step backward, but staying close.
Alexander, however, looks at me like I just called him a two-headed snake, which still would have been more accurate. He sways a little before taking a semi-cautious step forward, apparently still itching for a fight. This fucker really is stupid.
‘We can take this outside, where your little henchmen can’t help,’ he says.
Little? I wonder if his injury extends to his brain.
‘No need.’ I wave to Rose, who rushes over a bottle of Macallan 18. ‘Clear a booth for my friend here?’ I give Alexander a nod. ‘On the house.’