Chapter 8
Eight
Noir
Bass shakes the bones of the warehouse. It pounds through the floor, pulses through my fingers, hums beneath my skin like something alive and breathing. The crowd below is a sea of bodies—grinding, sweating, drowning in the rhythm I control from up here.
But I don’t give a fuck about any of them.
Tonight, I’m not here for the music.
I’m here for her.
I followed Dagger to that motel because I wanted to see for myself how his little street investigation was going. Wanted to watch him squirm. Watch the fear creep in behind his cocky smirk when it finally hit him that someone out there was playing his game—better.
Someone gutting his empire from the inside.
I expected panic. Chaos. A crack in that smug armor.
What I didn’t expect… was her.
Blair.
She strolled up to the vending machine in cheap black flip-flops, a tight black crop tank clinging to her chest, and a pair of shorts rolled at the waist just enough to give a perfect little peek of that tight ass.
Hair messy. Eyes sharp. She looked like sin draped in indifference, like the time she vanished hadn’t left a single mark.
And Dagger—fucking Dagger —was already there. Leaning like he owned the concrete, shooting that fake charm like it actually meant something. I watched him look at her like she was already his.
She rolled her eyes. Laughed at something he said.
Then turned toward the stairs and let him follow.
The second they vanished, I moved too. Quiet. Controlled.
I told myself I was just watching.
But when that motel door shut and I crept close enough to hear her moaning through the paper-thin wall?
Everything in me snapped.
That sound—her soft little cries, the way she begged—it seared through my skull like a blade dipped in acid. I could see it. His hands on her. His mouth. Her thighs trembling from the attention I should’ve been the one giving.
I almost killed someone again right there. Just for breathing near me.
If Dagger hadn’t sent his crew off before tailing her upstairs, I would’ve dragged one of them into the alley and spilled every drop of blood just to quiet the noise in my head.
But I couldn’t lose it. Not yet.
There’s still shit to do.
Dagger thinks the message was from a rival.
Fucker’s not wrong.
Just not in the way he thinks.
I killed the supplier. I sent the fucking message and lit the fuse.
Because when she disappeared, I made a promise.
Dagger was going to pay.
He’s just starting to feel it.
The beat in the warehouse spikes, dragging me back to the booth. A DJ slides up next to me—neon lashes, candy-pink hair, half her tits hanging out of a mesh top. “I’m on.”
“Take it,” I mutter, already walking off.
I can’t breathe in here. Not until I find her.
Not until I see her again.
Not until I touch her.
The bass rattles my ribcage as I jump down from the booth, ditching the decks and dropping straight into the sea of bodies below.
Hands claw at me immediately—girls with smeared makeup and glitter-drenched skin, breathless from the beat and high off everything but reality.
They know who I am, and thanks to the drugs Dagger or whatever one of his slum crew guys sold them, they’re desperate to touch me. To taste me.
But I don’t stop. I don’t dance, I don’t even smile.
Not for them, I just push past them.
I’m wearing a black hoodie vest tonight—unzipped, open like a dare.
Ink crawls across my chest and down both arms, catching flashes of strobe light like it's alive. Three thick silver chains hang around my neck, swaying with every step. My lip is still split from the fight with Dagger the other night—swollen and raw, blood crusted at the corner. My knuckles, bruised and scraped, pulse with every thud of the music. I didn’t bother cleaning them up.
I like the way they throb. It’s a reminder that despite everything, I am keeping my promise.
The bass drops—hard enough to rattle ribs—and chaos erupts across the warehouse like a lit fuse. Lights strobe, bodies surge, and the DJ’s scream cuts through the static.
She’s here.
I feel it before I see her, like the set was building just for her arrival.
Blair always leaves a trail. Glitter-dusted chaos, cigarette ash, lip gloss, and fucking sin.
I find it in the second-floor stairwell. A smudge of purple against the rail. Faint heel prints in grime. The emergency exit door nudged just enough to catch the breeze.
She’s outside.
The fire escape groans beneath my boots, metal flexing under weight and rage. Cold air hits my face like a slap. And then?—
There she is.
Slumped against the railing like she wants to melt into the skyline. Neon smoke rises from the crowd below, but up here it’s quiet. Removed. Like a dream someone left in the ashtray to burn out.
Her hair’s braided—pink and purple, glowing soft in the city light. That short skirt she’s wearing barely counts as coverage. Purple. Tight. No leggings. Just bare thighs and a black thong cutting up the curve of her ass. Her top’s off one shoulder, clinging to sweat-slick skin like plastic wrap.
She’s high and probably fucking drunk.
Yet still fucking beautiful.
My hand clenches around the railing as I step closer.
“Blair.”
She turns, slow. Eyes glassy, lips parted in a lazy grin that doesn’t quite reach her pupils.
“Look who finally climbed out of his haunted DJ booth,” she drawls, voice molasses-sweet and just as thick. “What’s wrong? Didn’t like the sound of silence without me screaming under your set?”
“Don’t start,” I bite, stepping closer. “How much did you take?”
She snorts, leaning back against the railing like she wants to fall. “Oh, you mean tonight, or this week in general?”
I don’t smile.
Her grin twists. “What? Gonna give me another lecture, Daddy?”
I close the space between us. “Was it him?”
“Who?”
“Dagger.” My voice comes out harsher than I mean. “You been with him tonight? Did he give you the shit?”
She blinks. Her brows arch. Then she laughs. “Jesus. Why do you make everything about him?”
I reach for her arm, but she jerks back.
“No,” she snaps. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re high, Blair.”
“And you’re a fucking hypocrite.”
Her words hit harder than they should.
“You act like you’re better,” she hisses. “Like you’re not using me too. Like you didn’t fuck me and then walk away like it was nothing.”
“That’s not what happened?—”
“Bullshit,” she cuts. “You think I didn’t notice? One second you’re inside me like you’re gonna break me in half, and the next you vanish like I’m just another body. Like it never fucking mattered.”
I look away.
She steps closer, poking a finger into my chest.
“And now you show up, throwing shade ‘cause I took something to feel good for five fucking minutes?” Her voice cracks, raw and too loud in the night air. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stalk me all night and act like I’m some mess you get to fix.”
My throat tightens. “You think I don’t care?”
She barks a bitter laugh, stepping closer, finger stabbing at my chest. “You don’t care about me. You care about this —your little dick-measuring contest with Dagger. That’s all this is. That’s all I’ve ever been. Another round in your fucked-up game.”
My jaw ticks. “That’s not true.”
“You wanna protect me?” she scoffs. “Bullshit. You just want to win. And you’re using me to do it.”
“That’s not what this is.” I move toward her again, slower this time, palms up like I’m trying to calm a storm. “You’re high. The drugs are fucking with your head?—”
Her expression snaps cold. “It’s always the drugs. Or Dagger. Or the past. It’s never you, is it?”
She leans into me, just enough that I think—maybe—she’ll let me hold her. That her anger might crack just enough for something soft to slip through.
I reach out, brushing her waist, fingers curving into her hip. My other hand rises, catches her cheek. Just the lightest touch.
For a second, she sways into it.
Her breath hitches.
And then she pulls back, spine straightening like she’s been slapped.
“No.” Her voice shakes now, but not with hesitation. With fury. “You don’t get to touch me. Not when all you do is watch. Wait. Show up when I’m fucked up and you decide I’ve had enough.”
I open my mouth then choke on the name that almost slips out.
“Brynn—”
She freezes.
Eyes locked on mine.
I see it—the flicker, the fracture before she looks away. Her face unreadable.
She shakes her head like she didn’t hear it. Like she won’t let herself hear it.
But she did.
We both did.
Her next words are low. Flat.
“Go play your little war somewhere else.”
She turns and storms down the stairs, boots slamming metal with every angry step.
Then, just like that, she’s gone.
Dagger appears at the top of the fire escape like the devil himself just clawed his way up from hell. Boots scuffed, black shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves shoved high to show off the ink coiled down his arms. That smirk—sharp and deliberate—like he’s been watching the whole fucking time.
“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Guess you don’t fuck as good as you think.”
I don’t move. Not yet.
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, voice cool and sharp. “Or maybe it was the part where you fucked her and walked away like she didn’t mean shit. I mean—we both know she doesn’t.”
My fist tightens. “You done?”
“Nah.” He tilts his head, still smirking. “Thought you had it all figured out, didn’t you? Got in there first, left your mark. Must’ve felt good. Until she shoved you off like a dirty fix she didn’t ask for.”
I step toward him, jaw clenched. “You gave her more, didn’t you? After what happened in the bathroom the other night—you still fucking sold to her.”
Dagger just smiles. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink.
I shove him back a step. “She could fucking die.”
Still nothing.
“You know how fucked up that shit makes her,” I hiss. “If I’ve seen it, I know you have. And you still gave it to her. You still watched her spiral and fucking handed her another hit like it was nothing.”
His smirk grows like I just proved his point.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing, Noir?
” he says finally, voice low, slick with venom.
“You think I don’t see you trying to repeat shit?
Rewind the tape. Get a second shot?” He leans in, smiling like a wolf.
“But Blair’s not her. You can’t change the way it played out by white-knighting her through the same fucking mess. ”
He goes still. Just for a beat.
“She’s not the same,” he says, voice flat. “But she’s close enough to make your dick hard. Close enough to let you pretend—for a second—that you didn’t fuck it all up. That you didn’t let her slip through your fingers. But she’ll never be enough to bury the guilt. And you know it.”
I lunge.
He grabs my shirt before I can swing, slamming me back into the railing with a snarl.
“She was selling on your turf,” I hiss. “Stealing your clients. Cutting into your business. You couldn’t control her, so you had her taken out.”
His hands drop. His expression shifts—tightens. Just a flicker. Just enough.
I press in. “How do you think Blair would feel if she knew the truth, huh? That you’re the reason her sister disappeared. That you made her vanish like trash swept off your fucking doorstep.”
Something flashes behind his eyes—something dark. But he covers it with a laugh.
“You really think that’s what happened?” he sneers. “You always needed a villain, didn’t you? Someone to point at so you didn’t have to look at yourself.”
I shove him.
“You’re gonna talk about me?” I spit. “At least I didn’t lie to her. I didn’t pretend to be her savior while cutting her off behind closed doors.”
He laughs again. It’s not funny.
“You know what I think?” he says, stepping in until we’re nose to nose. “I think Blair should know the last guy she fucked was in love with her sister. That he’s not addicted to her, he’s just hoping the twin shit goes all the way down.”
My blood turns to fire. “You shut your fucking mouth.”
“But I’m wrong, right?” he sneers. “You don’t see her as your second chance? Your do-over? The hit you missed. The body that vanished before you could admit you failed. You keep chasing her ghost like it’ll confess something you’re too fucking scared to say out loud.”
“Stop,” I growl.
He doesn’t.
“She’s not your redemption,” Dagger says, ice in his voice. “You don’t give a fuck about her. You just want to feel better about how it ended. Like maybe if you save the sister, you won’t feel so fucking guilty.”
I swing.
He dodges. Smiles.
Then he turns to go.
“I saw it,” he mutters, not even looking back.
“Watched her unravel. And you? You stood there acting untouchable, like you were too fucking pure to get your hands dirty. Told her she mattered, swore she meant something but when it came time to actually show up? You didn’t.
You wouldn’t. She needed someone to pull her back, and you let her sink.
So don’t stand here acting like I’m the villain in your little guilt-ridden fairytale. ”
He glances over his shoulder, smirking like he’s already won.
“Maybe if you’d actually fucking shown up when she needed you, you’d know what really happened.”
Then he turns his back on me.
Just like that.
Gone.
And I’m left standing there, fists clenched so tight my knuckles crack, breath ragged, sweat slick and sticking to my skin. The air’s thick—hot and muggy, like it’s holding its breath with me. Like even the fucking night knows I’m not okay.
Blair’s gone.
Again.
Straying just out of reach with that same look—cold, cutting, like I’m the one who wrecked her. Like she’s already decided I’m not worth the fallout.
And Dagger?
He thinks he’s won tonight.
Thinks just because she pushed me off that he’s won.
Let him think that.
Let him wear it like a fucking crown.
Because when I make him feel it—really fucking feel it—he won’t be smirking.
I slip through the crowd, cut across the warehouse, out into the night.
They can keep their music. Their chaos. Their goddamn delusions.
I’ve got work to do.