Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
RAE
The drive into town feels longer tonight, which is ridiculous because the road hasn’t changed and neither has the distance.
I’ve driven this same stretch so many times over the years that my body practically runs on autopilot when I’m behind the wheel.
Same narrow ribbon of blacktop cutting through the fields, same crooked mailbox leaning like it gave up trying to stand straight years ago, same shallow dip in the road just past the bridge that makes my truck bounce if I forget to slow down.
It’s familiar in the way things become when you’ve repeated them enough times that they settle into muscle memory.
But tonight the truck feels different around me, the cab too quiet, too still, the empty space beside me louder than the hum of the engine.
My eyes slide to the passenger seat before I can stop them, and the sight of it sitting there empty twists something in my chest that I immediately pretend not to notice.
A week ago Cole would’ve been sitting there, one arm braced along the door, boots stretched out like he’d been riding shotgun in this truck his entire life instead of barely knowing me a few days before.
He wasn’t much of a talker on the road, which suited me just fine because silence with him never felt uncomfortable.
It felt easy. He’d just sit there, occasionally glancing out the window at the fields or the tree line rolling past, like he was quietly cataloging every detail of a place that meant something to me even if he hadn’t known it long enough for it to mean something to him.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and drag my eyes back to the road ahead of me because the last thing I need tonight is my brain replaying every quiet moment we shared like it’s trying to prove a point I’m not interested in hearing.
This was my choice. My words. I’m the one who said them, clear as day, standing in my kitchen like I had everything figured out.
This isn’t real life.
The sentence drops back into my thoughts with annoying persistence, the memory of Cole’s face right after I said it following close behind.
Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… still.
Like something inside him closed a door quietly and he didn’t see any reason to argue about it.
That’s the part that keeps bothering me more than it should.
Cole Mercer looks like the kind of man who should argue when someone tries to push him away.
He looks like the kind of man who would step closer, not back.
Instead he packed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out like he understood something I was still trying to convince myself of.
The neon glow of The Rusty Nail sign flickers into view ahead of me just as the road curves toward town, cutting through the darkness like a beacon that’s been waiting there all along.
The old brick building sits at the edge of the main road exactly the way it always has, the windows glowing warm with yellow light and beer signs buzzing quietly against the glass.
The sight of it loosens something tight in my chest before I even realize that’s what’s happening.
This place has been part of my life longer than almost anything else.
When everything else feels like it’s shifting around me, the Rusty Nail stays exactly where it’s always been.
I pull into the gravel lot and cut the engine, the truck settling into silence around me except for the faint ticking sound it makes when it cools down.
For a moment I just sit there with my hands resting on the wheel, staring at the front door of the bar like it might tell me something useful if I look at it long enough.
It’s just work. Just another night. People will come in, drink their beers, complain about their jobs, argue about sports, and go home. Same as always.
I grab my bag and climb out of the truck before my brain can wander anywhere else it doesn’t need to be.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk up to the door and push it open, the familiar creak greeting me before the smell does.
Beer, fryer grease, lemon cleaner, and that faint ghost of cigarette smoke that soaked into the wood from the years before the smoking ban ever happened.
It hits me all at once, and for a second it feels like stepping into a version of normal I didn’t realize I needed tonight.
The bar is already half alive when I step inside.
The jukebox hums quietly in the corner, its colored lights reflecting off the scratched wooden floor, and two regulars are sitting at the far end of the counter arguing loudly about football like they’ve been having the same conversation every Tuesday night for the last decade.
“I’m telling you the man can’t throw under pressure.”
“That’s because your team’s offensive line collapses like wet cardboard.”
Their voices blend into the background noise as I slip behind the bar, ducking under the small gate like I’ve done a thousand times before.
Normally the moment I step back here something inside me settles into place automatically, like my brain recognizes this space as home base.
Tonight the feeling doesn’t come quite as easily.
Wayne notices immediately.
He’s behind the bar finishing the early shift like he always does before I take over for the night.
His sleeves are rolled up and he’s wiping down the counter with a rag that’s probably been in this building longer than some of the bar stools.
The moment he sees me walk in, his hand slows just a little and his eyes narrow over the top of his glasses in that way that means he’s already clocked something about my mood that I haven’t bothered trying to hide.
“Evenin’, troublemaker,” he says, setting the rag aside.
“Evenin’, old man,” I answer automatically as I drop my bag under the counter and start moving around the bar.
The exchange is so automatic it barely requires thought. We’ve been greeting each other like that since I was sixteen and convinced I could bartend better than half the grown adults in this place.
Wayne snorts quietly and leans his hip against the counter, watching me as I reach for the bottles on the shelf and start rearranging them in a way that makes absolutely no difference to how the bar functions.
I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, that steady, assessing look that’s been following me around since I was a teenager and tried to convince him I hadn’t started a fight in the parking lot five minutes earlier.
After about half a minute of watching me reorganize the same three bottles like they’re suddenly fascinating, Wayne exhales loudly through his nose and folds his arms across his chest.
“You gonna tell me what’s eating you,” he asks, “or are you planning on reorganizing that shelf all night?”
I glance down at the bottle in my hand and realize I’ve been holding it longer than makes sense.
“Maybe I just like whiskey,” I mutter, sliding it back into place.
Wayne lifts one eyebrow slowly.
“You don’t even drink whiskey.”
“That’s not the point.”
He studies my face for another second before pushing himself off the bar and heading toward the kitchen behind it.
“You look like hell,” he mutters as he disappears through the doorway.
I roll my eyes and grab a stack of glasses from the rack, even though they’re already clean.
“Wow,” I call after him. “Exactly what every woman hopes to hear when she walks into work.”
“You know what I mean,” he calls back.
“I’m fine.”
Wayne makes a low noise in the back of his throat from the kitchen, the same sound he’s been making since I was seventeen and trying to lie to him about why my knuckles were bruised.
“You’re a terrible liar, Rae.”
“I’m an excellent liar.”
“You’re terrible.”
The door swings open behind me then and Tommy and Rick wander in like they own the place, which in their minds they probably do considering how much time they spend here.
“Evenin’, Rae,” Tommy says as he drops onto his usual stool.
“Evenin’, boys,” I answer, grabbing a glass and reaching for the tap.
The routine helps more than I expect it to. Pour beer, slide the glass across the counter, take the cash, make a joke about Tommy’s terrible taste in teams. It’s all muscle memory, the kind of repetitive motion that keeps my hands busy enough that my brain doesn’t get too much space to wander.
For a few minutes the rhythm of the bar settles around me again and the tight feeling in my chest loosens just enough that I can breathe normally.
Then Wayne comes back out of the kitchen carrying a plate.
And I immediately know I’m about to lose an argument.
He sets the plate down in front of me like it’s not up for discussion.
Burger. Fries.
My eyes narrow at him.
“No.”
“You’re eating,” he says calmly.
“I’m working.”
“You’re eating while working.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Wayne folds his arms and leans against the bar like he’s got all night.
“Eat the damn burger, Rae.”
I stare at him for a second before grabbing it with a sigh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right.”
He watches me take the first bite like a hawk making sure its prey doesn’t escape.
Satisfied, he nods once and leans back against the counter.
“You heard from Ghost?” he asks casually.
The question lands heavier than it should.
“No.”
Wayne nods like he expected that answer.
“He head back to Jackson?”
“Probably.”
Wayne leans forward on the bar.
“You know I called Mason myself, right?”
That makes me pause.
“What?”
“When those idiots started sniffing around town,” Wayne says, “I called Mason. Told him I had men poking around my bar that I didn’t trust.”
I didn’t know that.
Wayne shrugs.
“I trust the Reapers. They’ve kept this town quiet a long time.”
He pauses before adding quietly,
“That Ghost of theirs… he’s the kind of man you send when you want something handled.”
My chest tightens.
“Yeah.”