Chapter 2
East
Present Day
The eight-ball kisses the bumper, a soft thud of felt on wood, and drops clean into the corner pocket.
The sound is a small, satisfying period at the end of a sentence I don’t want to think about.
My hands move on autopilot, racking the balls again.
The familiar slide and click of resin on resin, the dry scrape of chalk against the cue tip—it’s a constant rhythm to keep me moving, to keep me breathing. That’s the trick.
Across from me, Nash raises an eyebrow. It’s barely a twitch of a muscle, but from him, it’s a goddamn sonnet.
“You trying to win or work through something?”
I flash him a grin—too quick, too sharp, all teeth. He sees it. Shit. “Why not both? Got that therapist energy tonight, Nash. Should I lie down and cry about how my parents never hugged me enough?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. With his signature quietness, he walks to the table, exuding a dangerous calm. Rather than speaking threats, they seem to radiate from him.
And me? I fill the spaces he leaves behind. I talk to stay ahead of the quiet, the crushing silence that’s always waiting to swallow me whole.
“You ever think this place could use margaritas?” I ask, lounging against the edge of the table. “Salted rim, little umbrella. Really class the joint up.”
He doesn’t even glance up. “You’ll find a way to make tequila sad.”
Maybe that’s the point. Keep joking until nobody asks what’s really under it. I let out a low chuckle, but the sound feels hollow in my ears. He sinks two balls without blinking. Precision without effort.
“God, you’re fun,” I say, the words a shield. “This is why you don’t get invited to girls’ night.”
He stops, his cue resting loosely in his grip. His gaze lifts to mine. Still. Steady. Piercing in a way that makes your ribs feel too thin. “You good?”
Two words. No inflection. No judgment. Just a scalpel, pressed soft against the skin. And still, it cuts.
The air in my lungs turns thick, sticky.
The clubhouse noise—the thud of boots on the worn floorboards, the sharp crack of a laugh from the corner, the slam of a shot glass on the bar—fades to a dull roar, like I’m underwater.
Nash’s question hits like absolute silence, a vacuum where all that noise used to be.
My heartbeat is a frantic drum against my ribs.
I blink, slow, forcing the world back into focus. My smile returns, brittle around the edges. “I’ve got a beer with my name on it, a winning streak, and at least three women here who haven’t figured out I’m emotionally stunted. Life’s good.”
Lies. All of it. I’m a breath away from climbing out of my skin.
An anxious energy has been crawling under my skin all night, a familiar ghost that only shows up when I know she’s coming.
Frankie’s text from an hour ago is a hot coal in my pocket.
She’s coming. Don’t fuck this up. It wasn’t a heads-up.
It was a prophecy. A command. My gut twitches when she talks like that.
Like the universe already knows I’m about to screw something up.
And I hate that I trust her witchy bullshit more than I trust my gut.
Nash doesn’t move, but he knows I’m lying. I can see it in his eyes. I push off the table and step away before he can call me on it. He lets me go.
I cut a path through the crowd, needing the oppressive heat and the familiar press of bodies to ground me.
The music thumps low and filthy, making the bass rattle through floorboards that have seen too many fights.
The air smells of old sweat, spilled whiskey, and regret in a dozen different colognes.
It’s a sensory assault, and I welcome it. It’s better than the quiet.
Kyle spots me, already sliding a cold bottle across the bar. Smart kid.
“What, you reading my mind now?” I ask, catching the beer mid-glide.
He grins. “Didn’t seem like the right time to ask if you wanted something fruity.”
“Careful, Prospect,” I snort. “That almost sounded like personality.”
“I’ve been practicing,” he says, wiping down the bar with a rag that’s seen better days. “Figured if I’m gonna work my way up, I should at least learn how to charm the treasurer.”
“You want charm points, start by not short-pouring the whiskey,” I say, taking a long pull from the bottle. Cold and bitter. Good.
There’s a hunger in him tonight. A wired energy under the surface, like he’s waiting to be called into something more. He wants to prove himself. Wants in. But I’ve seen that hunger before. It burns hot and fast, and if you don’t learn how to carry it, it’ll torch you from the inside out.
I look him over, really look at him. The kid’s got a good head on his shoulders, but his potential is being squandered back here. “You’re wasted back here pouring drinks,” I say, my voice a low rumble. “You know anything about a wrench?”
Kyle blinks, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “A little. My uncle had a garage.”
“A little is enough,” I say, taking another pull from my beer. I set the bottle down with a definitive clink. “Show up at the garage tomorrow at 0600. Don’t be late.”
He goes to speak again with a flicker of excitement and confusion in his eyes, then hesitates.
I glance over. “What?”
“Just… you and Nash. You’ve been at that table a while. Looked like a funeral for a minute.”
I raise the bottle, tipping it toward him like a toast. “We grieve differently. I shoot. He judges. Balance.”
Kyle grins, relieved the conversation is back on solid ground. “Should’ve known.”
“Damn right you should’ve.”
My restlessness returns, the itch under my skin too strong to ignore.
I’m scanning the room, my eyes restless, when they land on her.
A brunette near the jukebox wearing a tight tank top with her mouth around a straw like she’s making a promise.
She sees me looking and doesn’t flinch. Bold. Curious. Just reckless enough.
Perfect. An easy distraction. An escape hatch. I can do this. I can be gone before Darla even gets here. Leaving Kyle and my half-empty beer, I push through the crowd. When I’m feeling the pressure, I do what I always do. I look for something easier.
I slide up to the brunette at the jukebox, lean an elbow against it, and flash her the grin. The one that works every time. “Careful,” I tell her. “Staring at me like that, you’re gonna make me think you’re trouble.”
She laughs, rolling her straw between her fingers. “What if I am?”
“Then I’m a public service,” I say, hand over my chest like I’m swearing an oath. “Taking trouble off the streets one beautiful woman at a time.”
She shakes her head, amused. The pattern is easy. I can already taste her—cheap lipstick and whiskey—can already feel the temporary, hollow victory of burying myself in a stranger.
“Another one, East?” Knox’s voice is a dry rumble as he walks past. “You’re gonna run out of girls in this town.”
I just wink at him over the brunette’s shoulder. I put my arm around her, my fingers finding the warm, bare skin of her waist. It’s a done deal. “Come on,” I murmur, my voice a low purr. “Let’s get out of here.”
She smiles, ready and willing. We walk toward the door, her hip brushing against mine. An easy escape.
Then the clubhouse door swings open. The sound is a dull creak of old hinges, but it hits my ears like a gunshot, making the world narrow.
All the noise of the bar—the music, the laughter, the shouting—fades to a distant buzz.
The slice of cool night air that cuts through the smoke feels like a physical thing.
Frankie breezes in first, a blur of leather and a wicked grin.
After Frankie, I see her.
The air punches out of my lungs. My feet stop moving.
The brunette at my side says something, her voice a muffled, meaningless sound, but I don’t hear her.
All I see is Darla. She pauses just inside the doorway, a silhouette against the darkness, her expression unreadable as her eyes scan the room like a battlefield.
She looks the same and nothing like she used to.
The soft edges of the high school girl are gone, replaced by the stunning, sharp lines of a woman carved from marble and ice.
Her hair is a severe, beautiful white that looks like it would be cold to the touch.
She is a dare. And I’ve taken it before.
Then she turns—barely. Just enough to catch Malachi in her line of sight. And something in my chest yanks tight. A hot, ugly knot of jealousy. She’s not yours. Never was. She belonged to him. Losing her once wrecked me. Watching her move on might finish the job.
The brunette beside me says my name, a questioning note in her voice. My hand, which had been resting on her waist, goes slack. I gently remove my arm, my eyes never leaving Darla. “Sorry,” I mutter, my voice rough. “Something just came up.”
I leave her standing there, a forgotten distraction. I don’t want to care. But my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
Darla shifts, cutting through the crowd in a straight line toward Malachi.
Calculated. Controlled. She always knew how to make silence loud.
It hits me like a bruise I thought had healed.
I tried. God, I tried to honor Declan’s last words, the promise he rasped out while my hands were slick with his blood.
But she built a wall so high I couldn’t breach it.
Now she’s here, and she’s tilting her head at someone else.
Her laugh cuts through the noise. Sharp. Brittle. It scrapes down my spine.
For a moment, I close my eyes, my hand making a fist. I can’t be here. I can’t watch this.
I turn and push my way through the crowd, heading for the back door.
The cool night air hits me, but it doesn’t help.
My hands are shaking as I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket.
It’s a habit I picked up after, something to do with my hands, something to burn.
I light it, the flare of the match illuminating the darkness.
The flare burns too brightly, too close.
I hold it there a second longer than I should, like maybe the fire can cauterize something in me.
I take a deep drag, the smoke a familiar, acrid burn in my lungs.
It doesn’t help. Her face is all that I can see.
All I hear is her laugh. All I can think of is the weight of a promise I’m failing to keep.
I take another drag, staring out into the dark alley, the cigarette a burning pinpoint of light in the overwhelming darkness.
For one more night, I try to believe I don’t give a damn.
The smoke fades, but the silence stays. It always does.