Chapter 3
Jiya
The gunshot slams into my ears and leaves the taste of burnt powder on my tongue. My hands clamp the bar, though I don’t remember reaching for it.
This isn’t like the time I almost lost control, choking the life out of that finance guy while I waited for the paralytic to kick in.
That was a contest. A test of who wanted to breathe more.
This was…random. Impersonal. Some two-bit idiot with a pistol almost ended me over pocket change.
The indignity of it is almost as shocking as the blast.
I’ve never been this close to dying.
One second, Calloway’s standing across my bar with that infuriating half-smile. Next, he’s pure motion. Liquid violence, all muscle memory and lethal grace.
The would-be robber lies crumpled on the floor, motionless but breathing. Calloway stands over him, hair mussed, pale eyes bright with adrenaline, and looking like a fucking god of destruction.
“Are you okay?” His voice cuts through the chaos, eyes locked on mine.
I nod, but my body disagrees. The fear is there, a tremor in my hands, but something else coils low in my belly. A dark, insistent heat. I stared down the barrel of a gun, and my body responds like I’m watching porn. This is fucked up.
Sirens scream outside, and die. Blue and red lights strobe through the bar, painting Calloway in frantic flashes of color. He’s at my side, his hand on my elbow, gentle but absolute.
“You need to sit down. You’re in shock.”
Shock is cold. This is fire. My gaze flicks from the man on the floor to Calloway’s calm face, and the truth slams me. I’m not horrified by the violence. I’m drenched in it. Turned on by it.
His hand moves to my shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. “Breathe,” he repeats, his voice low as he guides me to a stool at the bar.
“I don’t need—”
“You’re white as a sheet,” Jake says, shoving a glass of water at me.
I shove it back. What else am I supposed to do, sprinkle holy water and banish my thirst-demon?
Cops flood in, taking the gunman. One heads straight for us, notepad ready.
Calloway shifts, just an inch, and the heat of his thigh brushes mine. The contact is a live wire; it snaps up my spine, steals the air from my lungs.
“Sir, ma’am, I need statements from both of you,” he says.
I drag my gaze off Calloway’s knuckles—still flecked with the man’s blood—and force it onto the cop. My pulse is a drum in my throat, in my wrists, between my legs. I shift again, thighs pressing together, chasing the ache that shouldn’t be there.
He’s a monster. I know he is. And he’s my target.
The cop’s pen hovers over a small notebook. “Let’s start with what happened.”
“The man came in demanding money,” Calloway jumps in before I can speak. “He was erratic, obviously high on something.”
My focus shifts from Calloway’s face to his movements. While maintaining perfect eye contact with the cop, he slides his camera bag beneath the bar counter with his foot. It’s so casual, so controlled that I almost miss it. The cop surely did.
The black case disappears from view, tucked away.
He’s hiding it.
“Miss? Can you confirm that’s what happened?” the cop asks, his gaze shifting to me.
I drag my eyes up and see that Calloway’s watching me now, his gaze steady and unreadable.
“Yes,” I say. “Just like he said.”
“And then?” the cop prompts.
“He shoved the gun in my face. Mr. Frost dropped him before I could blink.”
Across the room, the robber groans as officers haul him upright.
“He saved everyone here,” I add, gesturing around the bar. “If he hadn’t acted...”
The cop flicks his eyes at Calloway. “You moved fast. Military?”
“No. But I watch a lot of YouTube,” Calloway says, utterly deadpan.
Jake snorts, then smothers it in a cough. The officer doesn’t laugh. His gaze lingers on Calloway a beat too long, suspicion prickling the air like static.
Another officer, younger but hungrier, steps closer. “You get into fights a lot?”
Calloway almost smiles. “Of course not. My first time.” He delivers it so straight you’d think he just confessed to shoplifting gum, not bending a man’s face in half.
The younger cop looks at him like he’s trying to decide whether Calloway’s mocking him or telling the truth.
Jake mutters, “Hell of a first time,” but the officers ignore him.
The notebook snaps shut. “We’ll need statements on file. Don’t leave town in case we have follow-ups.”
More cops spread through the space, collecting statements from patrons huddled in corners.
Jake handles the cops’ requests for surveillance footage while I provide contact information. Calloway does the same, his posture relaxed now, as if nothing unusual hides beneath my bar.
The cop nods. “Call if you remember more. Sign the written statement, and then you’re free to go.”
The customers trickle out as police finish taking statements. A few regulars linger, nursing free drinks Jake poured to settle their nerves.
The robber’s gone, hauled away in cuffs, but evidence technicians still process the scene, photographing the bullet lodged in the ceiling and the blood spatter where Calloway broke the guy’s nose.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it despite myself. “For saving me.”
Calloway's lips quirk into a half-smile. “Instinct.”
“Some instinct.”
The camera bag sits under the bar like a third party to our conversation. It’s a silent ticking bomb. He never looks at it. Not once. A lesser man would sneak a glance, check on his hidden secret. Calloway’s control is absolute.
Does he know I know? Is this some kind of test?
Jake snaps his apron strings, eyes flicking between us. He senses the strange energy, but probably misreads it as shared trauma.
“Cops are wrapping up,” he says. “We can lock the doors as soon as they clear out. I think we’ve all had enough for one night.”
My gaze keeps snagging on the floor beneath the counter. The bag is a black hole, pulling all the light and air in the room toward it. What’s in there? A bloody trophy? A severed head?
I lean against the counter, close enough that my foot brushes the edge where his camera case sits. My fingers itch to grab it, to see what dark treasures Calloway Frost keeps.
“We’ll need to wait for them to finish,” I say, nodding toward the police still documenting the bullet’s trajectory. “Can I make you something while we wait? On the house, of course.”
“Tempting,” Calloway says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But no need.”
“Or maybe...” I lean closer, dropping my voice. “Maybe you’d prefer a nightcap somewhere more private? Your place?”
Something flickers across his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“That’s not a no,” I murmur, too low for the cop to hear. My pulse claws at my throat like it wants to leap into his hand. He ignores me, which only makes me want to push harder.
Jake appears at my elbow. “Jiya, the cops need your signature on these forms.”
“Just a sec—”
“They’re saying they can’t release the scene until you sign.”
A sharp breath hisses through my teeth. “Fine. I’m coming.”
I snatch the pen from him and turn to the cop, scrawling my name across the lines without reading them. The cop drones on about insurance, property damage, procedure... It’s all just noise.
My head buzzes, part adrenaline, part irritation. The bag is right there, sitting smug as a cat. If I had two more minutes, maybe less, I could unzip it, peek inside, change everything.
“Last one?” I ask, tapping my foot.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I sign the last page and pivot back to the bar, my apology ready on my lips.
The bar is empty.
Calloway is gone.
“Shit.” I rush to the spot where he stood. Nothing but an empty glass and a generous tip tucked beneath it.
I sprint to the door, ignoring Jake’s startled question. The night air offers a cool caress to my feverish skin. The sidewalk stretches empty in both directions. No sign of him.
He slipped away with that damn bag. Whatever evidence I could have used to confirm his identity as the Gallery Killer disappeared with him.
The perfect opportunity, gone.