Chapter 16 Maddox
Maddox
The cot in the back room of the station is as uncomfortable as I remember, a thin, lumpy mattress stretched over a metal frame that groans with every shift. But right now, I don’t care.
Angela’s body is pressed against mine, her skin warm and slick with sweat, her breath a soft puff against my neck. Her perfume is a potent combination of citrus and mint, and it drowns out the dull, persistent ache in my ribs for a little while.
Afterwards, we lie there in the dim light filtering in from the high window.
“I’ve missed working with you,” she says, her voice quiet. She doesn’t mean on the cot. She means out there, on the trucks. Before the fire, before my secret.
I let out a short laugh, the sound humorless. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you guys on your toes.”
She props herself up on an elbow, her dark hair falling around her face. “You’re an idiot, Maddox.” But she’s smiling.
She leans down and kisses me, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of coffee and a desperate kind of longing. It’s nice. It’s simple. It’s a far cry from the complicated, gut-wrenching mess of my feelings for Millie.
“I have to leave,” I say, pulling away and swinging my legs over the side of the cot. My body protests, a sharp reminder of my own stupidity. “But I hope you have a great shift.”
“Always do,” she says, her voice already back to its usual professional clip as she starts pulling on her uniform.
I dress quickly, the movements automatic.
The air in the main bay of the station is cooler, the space empty and echoing.
My bike is parked out front, a gleaming machine of chrome and steel.
I swing my leg over the seat, the engine roaring to life with a satisfying growl that vibrates through my bones.
I need this. I need the wind and the speed and the mindless focus of the road.
I ride all the way to Bar 2.0, the newly built establishment that’s become the town’s unofficial living room. The parking lot is already half-full. I kill the engine and head inside.
The place is buzzing. The air is thick with the smell of beer and fried food, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated by the thud of darts hitting a board.
I spot Liam immediately, his back to me, his arm raised as he takes a shot.
He hits the bullseye, of course, and a small cheer goes up from the group watching.
I walk over to the bar, clapping him on the shoulder as he turns. “Where’s Millie?” I ask, my eyes scanning the room.
He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “On a call with her sister. She’s been out back for about ten minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer, his gaze turning sharp. “I can’t believe you’re sleeping with Angela again.”
I shrug, leaning against the bar. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is with you,” he says, but there’s no judgment in his voice, just the familiar, easy-going tease of a best friend. “As long as you’re having fun.”
“We have fun,” I confirm. It’s the truth. It’s a no-strings, mutually beneficial arrangement. A simple pleasure in a complicated life.
Keith slides a beer toward me. I nod my thanks. The bottle is cold, a welcome relief in my palm.
Just then, the bell over the door jingles, and Millie walks back in. Her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a slight tension around her eyes, but she offers us a bright smile when she sees us.
“Hey,” she says, sliding onto the stool next to me.
“Hey, Mills. How’s Thalia?” Liam asks.
“Fine,” she says, wrapping her hands around her own glass of water. “Just being Thalia. Inviting me to go visit her for a few days.”
“Are you gonna go?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says, her gaze drifting toward the bar’s eclectic collection of neon signs. The noncommittal answer hangs in the air, a small, unresolved mystery.
For the next hour, the three of us fall back into it.
We drink our beers, we laugh, we tell stupid stories about our shifts and the ridiculous customers at the café.
It feels good. It feels like we’re healing, like the fractured pieces of our little trio are slowly, painstakingly, being glued back together.
The weight in my chest feels a little lighter.
Then the door opens again, and the entire dynamic of the room shifts.
The sheriff walks in.
Knox Hill. He’s not in uniform, just jeans and a dark jacket, but he carries an undeniable authority.
He scans the room, his gaze confident and assured, and then he makes a joke to Keith that’s loud enough for half the bar to hear.
A wave of laughter ripples through the crowd. He fits in here. Too well.
He orders a beer, his back mostly to us, and I turn my attention back to my friends. But then I see it. A small, subtle gesture. Millie lifts her hand in a brief wave, and Knox, without even turning fully, gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod in her direction.
My brain files it away as nothing. They’re just being friendly. He’s the sheriff, she’s a volunteer. It’s a small town. People are polite.
I go back to my conversation with Liam, but a few minutes later, my eyes are drawn back to her.
She’s not listening to our story anymore.
Her gaze is fixed on the man at the bar.
She’s smiling, a small, private smile that I’ve never seen before.
She takes a sip of her beer, but her eyes don’t leave him.
A strange feeling starts to creep up my spine.
I watch her for another minute. She laughs at something Liam says, but it’s automatic.
Her focus is elsewhere. Her eyes keep drifting back to the bar, to the tall, broad-shouldered figure of the sheriff.
Each time, there’s a flicker of something in her expression. A warmth. A connection.
Wait.
The thought starts as a tiny spark in the back of my mind, a whisper of suspicion. I remember her telling me, her voice choked with tears, about the one-night stand. A stranger. Someone she didn’t know. Someone who was just passing through.
But Knox didn’t just pass through. He stayed. He became the sheriff.
The timing clicks into place with a horrifying, sickening certainty.
Is this who she fucked?
The question slams into me with the force of a physical blow, and the beer in my hand suddenly tastes like poison.
The easy camaraderie of the last hour evaporates, replaced by a cold, hard knot of dread in my stomach.
I look from Millie’s distracted, hopeful face to the sheriff’s confident, unaware back, and I know. I just know.
Liam’s voice is a low, steady drone next to me, a story about some tourist at The Cocoa Nook who tried to pay for a croissant with a Canadian coin.
I’m not really listening. My entire world has narrowed to the woman sitting on my other side and the man at the bar who has become the axis around which all my problems now orbit.
“…and so the guy just stares at the latte art and says, ‘Is that a seahorse or a map of Narnia?’” Liam finishes, a grin in his voice.
Millie forces a laugh, but it’s thin, brittle. She pushes her stool back. “I’m just going to head to the washroom,” she says, her gaze darting toward the dark hallway at the back of the bar.
“Don’t fall in,” I tell her, attempting a lightness that feels foreign on my tongue. It’s a stupid joke, but it’s all I’ve got.
She offers me a distracted smile before sliding off the stool.
I watch her walk away, my eyes tracking her every movement.
She doesn’t take the most direct path. Her trajectory curves slightly, bringing her within a few feet of the bar, of Knox.
She doesn’t look at him, not directly, but her entire body is aware of his presence.
Liam clears his throat, pulling my attention back to him. “When she gets back, we can all play a game of pool,” he suggests, his tone hopeful, like it’s a brilliant plan that will fix everything. “Like old times.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Her silhouette disappears into the dark hallway. I take a long pull from my beer bottle, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the fire in my gut.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “How are you two now? Really.”
Liam lets out a breath, running a hand through his curls. He looks relieved to be talking about it. “We’re just friends,” he says, and he actually sounds like he believes it. “We’re figuring that out. It’s… better this way. For now.”
I take another swig of beer and say nothing. I just nod, like I understand, like I agree. But all I can think is how naive he is. How blind.
Watching her be in love with Liam was one thing. It was a familiar, chronic ache, a wound I had learned to live with. It was part of the fabric of our three-person world, a sad but known quantity. But this? Watching her make those soft, secret, googly eyes at the sheriff?
That’s a different kind of monster entirely. One I have no idea how to fight.