CHAPTER 2
ACE
I'M ON MY back.
The floor is wet and sticky, and I'm pretty sure I just landed on broken glass.
And the guy on top of me has really long eyelashes.
His hands are planted on my chest. He's lean, compact, and there's this energy radiating off him that makes me think of a caffeinated squirrel.
"So, uh." He glances to the side, then back at me. "I don't want to alarm you, but the Christmas tree's on fire."
I turn my head.
The tree is absolutely on fire.
Not a little bit on fire. Not smoldering. Full-on flames licking up through the branches like it's auditioning for a disaster movie.
"Shit!" I scramble to get up, grabbing the guy's waist to help him up too, before we both become collateral damage.
He's lighter than I expected. I basically lift him to his feet without thinking about it. He steadies himself, hand briefly gripping my forearm, and looks up at me.
"I'm Devon," he says, like we're at a networking event and not in the middle of a crisis.
"Ace."
"Like the card?"
"Like the—yeah."
Someone screams, "The tree's on fire!"
"We established that!" Devon yells back.
The sound system the tree crashed into is sparking like a mad science experiment.
Broken glass glitters across the floor like the world's most dangerous disco ball.
Spilled drinks have turned the entire area into a melted skating rink.
Half my teammates are on their asses. The other half are yelling.
Petrov appears out of nowhere with a fire extinguisher—where the fuck did he even find that?—and sprays the tree while screaming what I'm ninety percent sure is Russian profanity.
The foam hits the flames.
The fire dies with a pathetic hiss, replaced by a cloud of chemical smoke that makes everyone cough and gag.
Petrov stands there, extinguisher in hand, looking proud of himself. "See? I fix."
"You're a goddamn hero!" Becker yells from somewhere in the smoke.
With the immediate death threat neutralized, everyone starts moving.
And by moving, I mean creating absolute pandemonium.
Washington's trying to organize people, but no one can hear him over the noise.
Becker's picking up glass with his bare hands.
Groover's trying to mop up an ocean of spilled alcohol with a single cocktail napkin.
Wall has his suit jacket off and is using it as a towel even though that jacket probably cost a grand.
I'm about to jump in when a whistle—sharp, loud, the kind that could shatter glass if there was any glass left intact—cuts through the chaos.
Everyone freezes mid-motion.
Devon has climbed onto the bar. He's standing on top of it, two fingers in his mouth, having just produced the loudest whistle I've heard outside of an arena.
"Okay!" he shouts. "Everyone shut the fuck up!"
The bar goes silent.
I'm staring. Everyone's staring. This guy—who I'm pretty sure is like five-foot-nothing—is standing on a bar commanding a room full of professional athletes, and we're all just... obeying.
Devon surveys the wreckage like a general surveying a battlefield.
Then he starts pointing.
"Russian!" He points at Petrov. "Excellent work on the fire. Now go find more extinguishers in case that tree decides to make a comeback."
Petrov nods sharply and takes off like he's been given a mission from God.
"You! Funny guy." Devon points at Becker. "Stop picking up glass with your hands before you need a transfusion. There's a broom in the back. Get it. Use it."
"Giant!" Devon points at Wall. "Tables. Get them upright. You're built like a tank, use it."
Wall just nods and starts hauling tables like they weigh nothing.
Devon's on a roll now, pointing at people rapid-fire.
"Redhead!" Jinx looks up, startled. "Stop fondling your pocket and help the Giant!"
"I'm not—" Jinx starts.
"Yes, you are! Every five seconds! Move!"
Jinx goes.
"You three!" Devon gestures at Groover, Snooze, and Hammer. "Glass crew. Blondie's getting the broom. You follow his lead. Try not to bleed on anything."
They scramble into formation.
Devon turns to Washington. "You look responsible. Congrats. You're with me. We need to document the damage."
Washington pulls out his phone without argument. I think he's too impressed to protest.
Then Devon's eyes land on me.
"You. The Ha—" He cuts himself off. "You're on crowd control. Make sure no one else comes in. And check if anyone's injured."
He says it so casually, so confidently, like he's been running disaster relief operations his whole life. It's fucking hilarious.
"On it," I say.
I do a sweep of the bar, checking on everyone. A few minor cuts from the glass. Nothing serious. Becker has a small nick on his palm that he's proudly showing off like a war wound. "Babes dig scars," he announces.
"That's not a scar. That's a scratch," Groover says.
"It'll be a scar if I believe hard enough."
I move through the space, helping where I can. Righting chairs. Making sure the patrons who were here—the ones who didn't flee during the fire—are okay.
Devon and Washington are documenting everything, taking photos, making lists. Devon's rattling off items at lightning speed while Washington types furiously.
"One Christmas tree, deceased. One sound system, possibly deceased, definitely traumatized. Approximately forty-seven glasses—"
"You can't know it's forty-seven," Washington interrupts.
"Fine. Approximately a shit-ton of glasses. How's that for documentation?"
I'm trying not to laugh as I pick up pieces of what used to be a barstool.
Petrov returns with three more fire extinguishers and positions them around the bar like he's fortifying a bunker. "In case of emergency," he says solemnly.
"The emergency already happened," Wall points out.
"In case of second emergency."
Can't argue with that logic.
Twenty minutes later, the bar looks... well, not good, but significantly better than arson scene.
The team's gathered around, sweaty and disheveled, looking pleased with themselves in that way hockey players do when they've accomplished something physical.
Devon hops down from the bar—when did he climb back up?—and immediately slips on a wet patch.
I catch his elbow before he goes down.
"Careful."
"Thanks." He's got a small cut on his cheek, probably from the glass. There's a smudge of something—foam? Soot?—on his forehead. His hair is even more chaotic than before. "You think we're in the clear?"
"For now."
He grins. "Well, that was fun."
"Your definition of fun is deeply concerning."
"I've been told."
The team's starting to relax now. Someone's laughing. Becker's doing an impression of Petrov attacking the fire, complete with Russian accent and dramatic hand gestures. Petrov's laughing too hard to be offended.
I turn to Devon. "So, are you the new manager or something?"
"Me? No, not yet. It's my first day."
I blink. "What?"
"First day. Started at five. It's now—" he checks his phone "—eight-thirty-seven. So I've been employed here for approximately three and a half hours."
I stare at him. "You've been here for three hours, and you just organized twenty athletes like a military operation."
He shrugs. "Someone had to. You guys were running around like a bunch of concussed penguins."
"We were helping!"
"You were creating performance art titled How to Make Things Worse."
I'm about to respond—with what, I don't know, because my brain's working overtime just processing the past half hour—when the front door flies open.
A woman stumbles inside.
The bar goes dead silent.
That instant, eerie quiet that happens when something's very wrong.
She's maybe mid-sixties, elegantly dressed in a silk blouse and tailored slacks. But the blouse has tears in it. Long, jagged tears, like something clawed through the fabric.
And her face.
There are scratches on her face. Three parallel lines down her left cheek, red and angry, still bleeding slightly. Her hair's mussed. She's breathing hard, like she ran here.
She looks around the bar, eyes wide and unfocused, like she's not quite sure where she is.
No one moves.
Then Wall takes a careful step forward, voice gentle. "Ma'am. Do you need help?"
At the exact same moment, Kayla gasps from behind the bar. "Mama Paws! What happened?"