Chapter 13 Lance
Lance
“You’re lurking again.” Genevieve slides a water glass to me. “It’s creepy.”
“I’m not lurking. I’m observing.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” She wipes down the bar top, her copper hair escaping from its messy bun. “You’ve been staring at the corner booth for ten minutes. Either go say hi to your sister or stop being weird about it.”
She says it like we’re friends. Like this easy back-and-forth is something we should be comfortable with.
I take the water because I don’t know what to do with the rest of what she’s giving me, and I barely breathe until she walks away to serve someone else.
Art appears from out of the back hallway, his eyes scanning the room until they land on me. He looks tired. But before he makes his way over, Juliette’s out of her booth and in my ear.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Bullshit.” She slides onto the stool next to me, her dark hair swinging behind her. “You’ve been ignoring our group chat again, and Roman thinks you’re back to hating him.”
“I don’t hate him.”
She leans in, lowering her voice. “Something’s going on with you. I can feel it.”
“Can you blame me? It’s been less than two months since you were kidnapped, Ty almost got killed, and our parents fled the country.”
She straightens. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Oh, so we only get to have family therapy sessions about things you want to talk about?”
She scoffs. “I don’t want to talk about Ty because he won’t return my phone calls.”
Same.
I thought things were on the mend with Ty, especially since him and Rosalie were next to each other at Marcus’s funeral. But that’s the last time I’ve seen him. And clearly, Rosalie is the same as always.
“I’ve dealt with everything else.”
I take a sip of water. “Right.”
“I’m not naive, so stop treating me like I am.”
“What do you want me to say, Jules? I’m not the same person I was when we were kids. Sorry for growing up, I guess.”
“That’s not good enough anymore, Lance.” Her voice cracks slightly, and fuck, I hate that I’m the one putting that sound there. “We almost lost Tyler, we did lose Bevie if you really think about it, and now you’re shutting me out again…”
My teeth grind so hard my jaw aches. “Jules, I need you to drop this.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking you to.”
Merrick appears, slinging an arm around Juliette’s shoulders and wincing. “What’d I miss? Are we fighting? Please say we’re fighting. I could use some entertainment.”
“Nobody’s fighting,” Juliette says.
“Shame.” Merrick smiles at me. “That could change. Here comes the biggest instigator of them all.”
Great. The last thing I need is for Benny to come over here.
I ignore him when he sidles in next to us, my attention pulling back to where Genevieve’s sliding something pink and frozen to Art.
He takes a sip and his nose crinkles.
“Too sweet?”
“Way too sweet.” But he’s laughing and tucking a strand of copper hair behind her ear.
My leg bounces under the bar.
“I’ll make you another one,” she says.
“Just give me a beer instead.”
“Isn’t that what I said?” She grins.
He leans across the bar and presses a kiss to her forehead, and she leans into it, her eyes closing.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
She’s counting.
I look away and grab my water glass just to have something to do with my hands.
“Makes you almost believe in romance, doesn’t it, Benny?” Merrick says.
Benny snorts, his fingers drumming against the bar top. “Makes me believe in job security, I guess. She gets the good shifts, Art gets laid, everybody wins.”
Genevieve’s head snaps toward him. “Say that again, Benjamin. I dare you.”
He holds up his hands. “Just an observation, Gin. No need to get hostile.”
Art squeezes her fingers and murmurs something I can’t hear, and she softens like butter.
I don’t think Art’s said more than three words to me since he’s shown up here tonight, but that’s fine.
Everything’s fine.
“I need air,” I say, and before anyone can reply, I’m halfway out the back hallway.
The night breeze hits my lungs like a punch. I sink into one of the cheap white Adirondack chairs by a makeshift ashtray and tip my head back, staring at the sliver of sky visible between the buildings.
The door creaks.
“I said I’d be back.”
“Yeah, well, men are liars, so forgive me for not believing you.”
Genevieve.
She drops into the chair across from me, a bar rag clutched in her hand.
“Jules send you to check on me?”
“I’m not checking on you.” She crosses her arms. “I’m taking a break.”
“Sure.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
She hums and then kicks my boot with her shoe. “Liar.”
The distant sounds of the bar filter through the walls—muffled laughter, the clink of glasses.
“Your sister seems nice,” Genevieve says.
“She’s a pain in my ass.”
“She loves you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I close my eyes, leaning my head back.
“Okay. So what do you want to talk about then?”
I crack open my lids and peer down at her. Under the stark light, her freckles are more pronounced, dotting her face like constellations.
“Why aren’t you cooking?” I ask.
She rings the bar rag tight. “I cook all the time.”
“You said you used to be a sous-chef, so why’d you leave all that behind to bartend in this shitty tavern in this fucked-up town?”
She tweaks her left ear, biting into her bottom lip. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“I was months away from a promotion. About to be a senior sous-chef.” Her hands spread out like she’s imagining it on a billboard. “It was everything I’d worked for, and then it wasn’t.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. One day I was there and the next I was fired. I tried to get another job anywhere in Boston, but…” She clears her throat. “Art asked me to move here, and I thought fuck it, you know? Love over ambition, which is supposed to be romantic or whatever.”
“Is it?”
“No.” She laughs. “It’s just…smaller. Everything feels smaller here.”
It feels like she’s cracked open my chest and shined a flashlight inside.
“What was it called?” I ask.
“What was what called?”
“The restaurant.”
She hesitates, her fingers tangling in the rag. “Cameliard. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
I nod, my mind flipping through memories of when I used to go to Boston with Bevie—Cassandra—on weekends as a kid. “I’ve heard of it.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, my old nanny grew up in Boston. She used to take us for weekend getaways when I was a kid.” I shrug like the thought of her doesn’t hurt. “The food was good.”
Her face softens. “Yeah. It was.”
“So you gave all that up for a guy?”
“Something like that.”
A soft breeze blows across her face, whipping strands of her hair against her cheeks. My fingers twitch.
“He offered to give me the kitchen here, did you know that? But it hurts too much now. And that pisses me off, because cooking is my thing.”
I study her. She’s stubborn even when she’s being vulnerable. The same way I’d guess people see me.
“What do you miss the most?”
She blinks. “About Cameliard?”
“About cooking. Being a chef. Whatever.”
She stares at the brick behind my head, her forehead scrunching, and for some reason, I can’t look away.
“The sound,” she says. “During service, when everything’s moving right, there’s this rhythm.
Pans hitting burners, knives on cutting boards, the sizzle of something hitting hot oil.
” A small smile tugs at her mouth. “It’s chaos, but it’s organized chaos.
Like a symphony, almost. And when you’re in the middle of it, when you’re plating something perfect and the tickets are flying out and everything just works… Nothing else feels like that.”
Her face fills with joy, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it on her.
“Bartending’s fine, though. Just different.”
“Different meaning worse.”
She laughs. “God, you’re an asshole. Can’t you let other people live in denial?”
I give her a small smile and tip my head back, staring at the stars.
“Different like I traded in that symphony for a single note,” she says. “And I’m forgetting what the rest of the music sounds like.”
A single note. Yeah, I know that song.
“You should get out of the tavern, Half-Pint. It’s no place for someone like you.”
She scoffs. “Do you always have to insult me?”
“It’s not an insult; it’s a compliment.”
“Where would I go? You gotta job for me?”
“My brother owns Dante’s. If you’re nicer, maybe I’ll put in a good word.”
“If this is your way of trying to bribe me to stop hating you, you’re doing a terrible job.”
I smirk. “I’m a terrible person, so that tracks.”
“You’re not terrible,” she says.
“Don’t lie to me, Half-Pint. I’ve just started to like you.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds, and why the fuck did I just say that?
“What about you?” she asks.
“What about me?”
“What’s something you miss?”
The question lands deep, somewhere I don’t normally let people touch.
“I don’t miss things.”
“Bullshit.”
I should leave it there. I should get up, walk away, and go home. Or even better, go underground and remind myself why feeling anything other than indifference toward people is a one-way ticket into getting them hurt.
People who matter are just more collateral for the men who control me.
Instead, I admit, “I miss having talks like this.”
My admission settles between us like it’s this fragile, vulnerable thing.
“Ginny, you back here?” Art’s voice rings out.
Everything warm in my body goes cold.
“Yeah, give me a second.” She stands, brushing off her pants, and then just stares at me without moving.
“Seven seconds?” I ask, ignoring the way my chest tightens.
Genevieve grins and taps her temple. “For my seven minutes. Guess you’re on a hot streak, huh, Champ?”
And then she’s gone, and I’m alone with the uncomfortable realization that I just told my best friend’s girlfriend more than I’ve told anyone in years.
The last few minutes rewrite themselves, all of it rearranging into something I should have known better than to let happen.
I need to go back inside. Apologize to Juliette. Make nice with Roman. Pretend everything’s fine.
But before I can move, the door opens again.
It’s Art this time. He steps into the alley, and there’s something on his face that makes my stomach drop.
Is he pissed about me and Genevieve?
“Hey.” He glances around like he’s checking for eavesdroppers, then moves closer, lowering his voice. “The Lye’s back on. Tomorrow night.”
I close my eyes, that familiar weight settling onto my shoulders.
“Who’s the guy?”
“I don’t know yet. Benny’s handling the details.” Art runs a hand through his hair, and I can see the guilt written all over his face. “I tried to push back. I did. But they’re not—they don’t listen to me the way they listened to Freddy.”
“Nobody listens to you, Art. That’s the problem.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him.
“Shit. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“No, you’re right. I put this place in my name to help you, and instead I just keep fucking it all up.”
The raw honesty in his words cuts through my anger.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “You didn’t know what you were getting into, and I knew Freddy wasn’t the end of this.”
I lean back in the chair, staring up at that sliver of sky again. Somewhere inside, Juliette’s probably still trying to figure out what I’m hiding. Genevieve’s probably back behind the bar, counting to seven while she memorizes moments she wants to keep. I wonder if I’m one of those moments.
Stop it. Art is right fucking here.
“Tomorrow night,” I repeat.
“Midnight.” He nods. “I’m sorry, Lance. I’m so sorry.”
I push to my feet, rolling my shoulders, and my body shifts into that familiar mode, the one where I stop being Lance Calloway and start being Excalibur: the weapon they turned me into.
“Don’t worry about it.” I clap him on the back. “Can’t forsake midnight forever, yeah?”
Tomorrow night, I’ll bleed again.
But tonight, I’m going to go inside, ignore Genevieve like my life depends on it, apologize to my sister, and pretend—for just a little longer—that I’m still the person she thinks I am.