Chapter Seventeen
Kira
I’m off my game. I can tell by the one-dollar bills I’m getting.
I typically get at least fives. And my apron feels lighter than usual.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and pour the final drink of the night.
I just did last call, and, of course, the three stragglers wanted to take advantage of it.
But despite having only three guys left in the bar, I’m still sweating. I haven’t stopped.
“I’m gon’ need a cab, honey,” mustache mumbles to me as I hand him his drink. His words are thick and lazy. He leans on the bar to hold himself upright. “You’ll call me one, won’t you?”
“Call it yourself,” I huff and turn my back on him.
Well, that explains why my tips suck.
Bracing myself against the ice bin, I let my fingertips graze the cold cubes.
I’m burning up. I want to crawl into the ice and die.
I’ve been chugging water, but it’s not helping.
My feet feel like they are going to explode from my boots, and I haven’t had swollen feet from working since my first job. This is a torture I’ve never endured.
I hear keys being pulled from a pocket, farther away from the shit-faced guy I just handed a drink, and I could cry with relief. All I want to do is lock up and go home.
Home.
The place where Marshal bled out.
My chest tightens like it has every time I’ve remembered what transpired last night.
I don’t know if it’s my weakened heart or if I’m actually losing my nerve, but the weight of what we’ve done is crushing me.
I keep replaying what Jax said; ten to thirty-five years in prison.
And that’s not even for the murder itself.
I grip my stomach, suddenly feeling like I’m going to throw up, and I barely make it to the bathroom before a gallon of water comes up.
Wiping my mouth, I lean against the stall wall before sliding down onto my ass, knees up, forehead tipped back against the divider.
I have to get a grip. We burned the body.
No body, no crime. That’s what Caleb said.
Oh, God. I’m quoting a high schooler.
But did we burn it? Every last bit? I can’t remember.
I mean, I obviously remember the flames and…
the smell. But I think I blacked out toward the end.
I barely remember Jax carrying me down the mountain.
What was left in that pile of char? A bone?
A bone with the slash of the knife Nix stabbed him with?
My vision sways, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the spinning.
Fuck. I can’t do this right now. Taking deep breaths through my nose, I gather my hair and lift it off the back of my neck. The air cools the damp sweat, and I gently open my eyes. The dizziness persists, but I push up anyway. I rinse my mouth, swipe water under my eyes, and walk back out.
I manage to wipe down the bar and take out the trash, but it’s a poor excuse for my usual work.
Mustache leaves when I bump his beer, knocking it over onto his lap.
Thankfully, he’s too drunk to care, and I do, in fact, call him a cab because I don’t think I can stomach another death on my hands.
But not even that earns me a tip from him.
Finally alone, I lean against the still-sticky bar top as I count the night’s pull, procrastinating. The walk home isn’t that bad—maybe thirty minutes—but the idea makes my feet throb. The only thing that’s going to get me through it is the lure of a shower and my bed.
I recount three times, truly stalling or in disbelief, because I only made eighty-seven dollars. Eighty-seven dollars. On a Saturday night. Shaking my head, I stuff it into my back pocket and rip off my apron. I normally make at least two-hundred. This is going to screw us.
Before the anger can fade, and I curl up on the bar for a nap, I let it fuel me.
I flick off the lights and ready my knife in my palm out of habit as I head toward the doors.
Stepping into the night, my mind is busy trying to figure out how to make up the money, or what we can skip this month.
as I lock the doors. I think I can get an extension on the power bill.
Or did I do that in the last six months?
They only allow you to do it once. I could—
I swing the knife as someone pushes off the wall beside me.
It meets flesh before I even know what asshole has the audacity to try and get the jump on me.
But it’s after four a.m., and I’m not taking any chances.
I got cornered three years ago by a guy who thought I was sending him signals all night.
But he was wearing a fucking polo. I was not sending him signals.
“Fucking kidding—” the guy curses, but I stomp the heel of my boot on his, cutting him off.
Whether he wants in my pants or to take my eighty-seven dollars, I don’t care. He isn’t getting either. I’ve had a shit night, and he fucked with the wrong girl. I will burn another body before I let some dickhead take what’s mine.
But my wrist is clamped before I can swing blindly into the shadows again, his grip pinching a tendon that causes the knife to fall.
Without hesitation, I bring my knee up to ram him in the balls, adrenaline overriding the fatigue in my bones.
I make contact, and he lets out a yelp, but doesn’t let go.
I’m spun by the wrist, and he lock my back against his heaving chest.
“Stop,” he demands as I wriggle. “Kira. Stop.”
My heart stutters at the mention of my name, but I don’t stop. I jab my elbow into his side, just under their ribs given the height difference. He growls but doesn’t falter, squeezing me tighter. What is this guy made of—stone?
“If you don’t stop right now, I’m raising the price,” he hisses in my ear.
Price? Something clicks—something about five-hundred thousand dollars—and then I gasp. “Jax?!”
“Yes,” he huffs. “But I’ll be whoever you aren’t willing to stab again.”
I scoff, my relief at not being assaulted quickly morphing into annoyance.
“What are you even doing here?”
“How about a ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to stab you and take away your ability to have kids one day’?”
“I grazed you.” I roll my eyes, even though a pleased smile teases my lips. “You can let me go now.”
He still has me pinned against him, and the warmth of his chest searing intimately against my back has my heart beating roughly for a whole other reason than the exertion it just used. He has me so securely that I’m barely even using my own feet to hold myself up.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, his breath a warm ghost along my cheek. “I’m not convinced you didn’t know it was me.”
“If I knew it was you, I would have stabbed deeper.”
His chuckle is low, vibrating through me. “So brave… even when I have you in a position to snap your neck.”
My breath hitches. The way he says it isn’t a threat—it’s a fact.
And he’s right. I shouldn’t be pushing him.
He was a senior for all five minutes during my high school career.
I don’t really know him or what he’s capable of.
And why is he here? Did he rethink the whole accomplice thing and decide I’m a loose end? Did he already take care of Nix?
“Let me go…” My voice comes out panicky and breathless. Because if he did something to Nix…
“Aww, are you scared, Kira?” His voice drops low, taunting, and when he tilts his head, his cheek brushes mine. The contact is barely there, a whisper of heat against my skin, but it sends a shiver down my spine. “Tell me you’re scared, and I’ll let you go.”
“No,” I spit without thinking.
It’s a knee-jerk reaction to resist appeasing him—physically painful to even consider giving him what he wants. It would be easier if I just played along. But I fucking hate games.
“Then I guess we’ll just stay like this all night…” His smirk curves against my cheek.
Narrowing my eyes at the parking lot—and ignoring the heat crawling across my body—I contemplate elbowing him again. But he’ll be ready for it. And my elbow is already sore. With a quick prayer, I jerk my head back.
Expecting to feel the crunch of his nose, I’m thrown off when he dodges it. The movement shifts our balance, and my feet slip. But he doesn’t let me go. He adjusts, twisting us and planting me against the wall. Dizzy, I slowly realize I’m now trapped—the wall to my chest and him to my back.
“You done?” he asks, voice rough but amused.
“Not even close,” I grit out.
He chuckles and pins my wrists above my head with one hand, the other pressing into my hip, keeping me locked in place.
I resist the urge to buck, which would only cause me to rub against his cock—something I’m annoyed that I’m aware of.
Jesus, he’s big. Is he hard? Does this turn him on? Does this turn me on?
My lower stomach swoops in confirmation, and I clench my teeth. He. Is. A. Murderer. Have I lost my fucking mind?
“You know,” his lips brush against my ear, causing me to shiver, “most people in my debt would be nicer.”
“Fuck you. I’m not in your debt.”
“On the contrary, you’re half a mil in the hole.”
Five-hundred-thousand. The same amount he alluded to while pulling up the flooring and, probably, the amount he threatened to make go up if I didn’t stop trying to resist him. What I could possibly owe him that much money for, I have no idea.
“Oh, yeah?” I snort. “For what?”
“Hmm,” he brushes his lips against my ear. “Disposal of a body… forensic cleanup… public destruction… packmuling.”
“You lit a match.” I scoff. I can’t believe he thinks he’s going to charge me for that. “And what the fuck is ‘packmuling’?”
“Well, in certain countries, they have these small ponies that carry things up—”
“I know what a mule is!” I snap, blowing a strand of my hair off my face.
“Do you? Because—”
“You carried me down a hill,” I cut him off, sure that’s what he’s getting at. “You carried a sick girl down a hill. And now you’re charging her for it. Well, good luck. Report it to the credit bureaus, because I don’t have it.”
“Oh, Kira,” he purrs. “I know you don’t have it. But there’s other ways to work off debt…”
His voice sinks into my marrow at what he’s insinuating, and if I weren’t pinned to a wall, I would attempt to shake it off—even if I do find myself contemplating it. But I can’t. And to add insult to injury, he runs his hand down my hip.
“Hey.” It’s an attempt at a snap, but it comes out more like a plea, given the way I’m melting from the heat of his palm.
If he doesn’t let me go, and now, I’m going to do something I regret when the sun rises.
“Wh—what do you want?”
“Would you stab me again if I said you?”
My core tightens. “Yes.”
“Worth it.”
“Stop.”
“Do you want me to stop?” His breath is warm as he presses his body closer, and I swear I can feel the thumping of his heart through our layers of clothes. My breathing picks up, chest tight against the weight of him, the scent of him flooding my senses—leather, smoke, something darker.
“Why are you here, Jax?” I ask, more in denial than anything else. The last thing I want is to give him the satisfaction of breaking me down, to admit that I like his body against mine.
His proximity is suffocating. Every nerve screams to get away, but every cell in my body is aware of him. That hardness pressed against me, the way his breath hovers over my skin. He’s one move away from crushing me into submission.
He suddenly sighs and steps back. Relief floods me as I’m met with cold air, but it takes a second to peel myself off the wall. My legs feel weak as I turn to face him, confusion in my brows.
Under the orange street lamp, I get my first glimpse of the tear in his shirt where I swung my knife, and holy fuck, he’s pouring blood. It’s dripping down his arm, red rivulets snaking down and landing in droplets on the sidewalk.
“I’m fine,” he says when he notices my widened eyes.
“You sure? ‘Cause that looks pretty bad.” I wince, tying my fingers into a knot even though I know I shouldn’t have any remorse.
“You should see the other guy.” He smirks, eyes roaming over me.
Looking down at myself, I straighten my jacket and raise my chin. I push my hair back, hoping like hell that my cheeks don’t look as flushed as they feel, and cross my arms.
He chuckles and shakes out his hand, a smattering of blood hitting the concrete. “Get in the car, Kira.”