Chapter 1 Cole #12
A pause. Then: “You’re letting him cloud your judgment. Don’t think I don’t see it. One more misstep, Bailey, and I have to pull you out.”
“Sir—” But Keller’s already hung up. Cursing, I toss the burner onto the workbench and stare at the cracked cement floor.
I don’t care what Keller says.
JJ and Ronnie won’t touch Cole. Not when I’m still breathing.
COLE
Baywood Beans has never looked so intense.
Dorothy and Delilah Bloom have transformed the place into something between a game show set and a high-stakes poker tournament — for Sudoku.
The prize is a coupon for a free beverage, and judging by the determined looks on competitors’ faces, that is one coveted piece of paper.
The tables have been rearranged into a tournament bracket, each one labeled with the competitors’ names in elaborate calligraphy. (Ann-Sabrina contributed, she was on a course.) The centerpiece of each table: a pristine Sudoku grid, sharpened pencils, and a small kitchen timer.
Earl’s eying the pencils and wringing his hands. “Those pencils look awfully sharp, y’know, and we have delinquents brawling the streets,” he says, worry lines on his shiny forehead. “One might ask if it’s wise to keep shivvies out in the open like this?”
Mrs. Kirkland tells him to sit down and be still.
Then Dorothy, wearing a referee shirt over a glittery skirt, announces the rules like she’s introducing the Hunger Games. “No calculators. No phone apps. And absolutely no talking during play unless it’s to psych out your opponent.”
Delilah stands beside her in a similar outfit, holding up a brass bell and smiling wickedly. “When you finish your grid, ring the bell. Loudly. Triumphantly.”
The competitors are a bit unevenly paired, which makes me think tonight is more about entertainment than fairness.
Michael Manning is against Becky Fairweather, both so competitive things could turn volatile fast.
Earl is paired with Mrs. Kirkland, an unfair match if there ever was one, especially because Earl is terrified of her. (Understandably. She once sent me into a cold sweat just by saying, “Show your work.”)
Ann-Sabrina plays against Steve, and they’re already arguing about whether Fae mathematics is real.
Harold Bramble sits opposite Henry Ashford. Harold looks like he was tricked into this, whereas Henry looks calm like always, pencil balanced neatly beside his paper.
At the corner table, Eliot Thorne has somehow paired himself with Mr. Benson. Eliot insists on offering a running commentary: “Did you know Sudoku was not invented in Japan?”
Mr. Benson beams. “Fascinating. Did you know Dusty Springfield once filled in half a crossword in pen without a single mistake? My cat Dusty tried the same thing but chewed the pencil instead.”
“Fun fact,” Eliot goes on, “if you write the number nine upside down, it’s technically a six, which means Sudoku is a reversible puzzle. In a way, we’re all living in reversible puzzles.”
Dorothy clears her throat. “Focus, Eliot.”
My role is to play the keyboard in the corner and keep the atmosphere “cheerfully tense”. Which, in practice, means trying not to break into the Jeopardy! theme during dramatic pauses.
“Begin!” Dorothy shouts, slamming the tiny kitchen timer like a buzzer.
The room erupts into furious pencil-scratching and low mutters. The absolutely no talking rule is the first one to go as Earl confesses he doesn’t know the rules.
“It’s numbers one through nine without repeats, Earl. Did you not read the instructional pamphlet?” Delilah murmurs.
“I have a tendency to recycle all pamphlets on sight.”
Two tables over, Ann-Sabrina is scribbling furiously. “Steve, you have seven here three times already, look,” Dorothy says over his shoulder.
“That’s my practice row,” Steve claims.
Harold, meanwhile, is staring at his puzzle like it insulted him, muttering something about numbers and Founding Fathers.
Michael and Becky’s table looks like a war zone. Or an intense espionage drill. I half expect one of them to start speaking in code. Or resorting to shivvies, as was Earl’s fear.
By round three, Eliot is musing how Sudoku is an illusion of order, and Mr. Benson is humming Son of a Preacher Man while folding his grid into an elaborate origami.
Earl’s breathing into a paper bag and commenting on its nice, sugary smell, whereas Steve has declared himself the “backward winner.”
The final match comes down to Mrs. Kirkland and Henry.
Dorothy narrates in a whisper, like it’s a chess championship. “Mrs. Kirkland fills the final box… but wait…”
That’s when the door opens, letting in a rush of air. J?rgen, towering and broad, is carrying both Noah and Sammy.
“I found these rascals in my house,” he rumbles, and Noah giggles loudly. Sammy’s laughter is more subdued but just as delighted. J?rgen grins, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat.
Across the room, Henry’s pencil hesitates for half a second.
His gaze flicks up and locks on J?rgen. Long enough to be obvious.
Long enough to matter. Then he jerks it back to the grid.
But that pause was enough. Mrs. Kirkland rings her bell with triumph.
Henry blinks, caught off guard, then composes himself instantly.
“Congratulations,” he says, smiling, and very studiously does not glance at J?rgen again.
XADEN
Keller’s voice is still in my head: “If you break cover, you end the op.” Meaning: no justice for my dad.
I pace around the backroom, coiled tighter than I’ve been in weeks.
This whole summer’s a mindfuck, and I’m sick of it.
It’s not like Keller has to watch JJ and Ronnie circle Cole like hyenas.
He’s not the one standing there, pretending he doesn’t care while they drop hints.
Just enough for me to know they’re sniffing closer.
My fists ache for an outlet. JJ’s jaw. Ronnie’s smirk. But I can’t. I can’t blow my cover, not when I’m this close. And the truth? Violence was never my answer. My fake rap sheet screams biker brawls and resisting arrest, but the only fights I’ve thrown myself into were prison cover work.
Still — mess with the man I love, and you might as well call me Bryan Mills.
I drag both hands down my face.
I know exactly how this’ll go: I’ll try to warn Cole, and he’ll spit fire. Cut me with his words the way he did on his porch. In front of Baywood Beans. At the festival.
And I’ll take it. God knows I deserve it. Better he hates me than gets caught in this mess. But I can already see it: his eyes blazing like I’m the last person he wants near him.
I’ll have to swallow down the truth all over again.
That I never stopped loving him. Not for a second. Not for a breath.
COLE
Once a week, Caspian takes me grocery shopping. He knows I hate doing it alone. Baywood Market isn’t even that big but it still manages to overwhelm me — the aisles, the lights, the constant noise, and the demand for small talk whenever I see someone I know. Which is always.
We’ve just returned and are unloading bags from Caspian’s car when I see Xaden.
He’s striding toward my house like a storm, shoulders tight, stubble dark along his jaw.
He looks different. More dangerous. More exhausted, too, which makes me want to take care of him.
God, my mind is as treacherous as my body.
I haven’t seen him since I told him to leave me the fuck alone and go to his hook-ups. Just the thought of him actually doing that makes me want to scream.
Caspian squares his shoulders. “I’m going to tell him what’s what,” he mutters.
“Don’t,” I say. “I’ll handle him.”
Xaden stops abruptly, glaring at Caspian.
“Where’s Sniff and Stinky?” I ask before I can stop myself. “You make such a charming trio.”
He ignores my jibe. “Can I talk to you?” His voice is cool but strained. “In private.”
Part of me wants to say yes, to hope for some explanation. But the bigger part wants to lash out. Hurt him back. You’re prettier than the guys he usually fucks. Wasn’t that what his friend said while they were laughing at my shocked face?
“Anything you want to say, you can say in front of Caspian.” For a second, he looks almost devastated. I wanted that to sting, but now that I see it did, I don’t like that.
Caspian stands beside me like a bodyguard.
Xaden glances at him again, jaw tightening. “Fuck off.”
“Make me,” Caspian says, unblinking.
I swear to God. “Are you two quite done measuring your testosterone levels?” I snap.
I glance at Caspian. “I’m okay. Give us a little space.
” He steps back, reluctantly. Somehow this seems to aggravate Xaden even more.
He looks down at our bags; cereal, juice boxes, dinosaur cookies and Caspian’s craft beer, all thrown domestically together.
Suddenly he looks so out of place I almost feel sorry for him.
Until he opens his mouth.
“I’ve been wondering, Stone,” he says bitterly. “Did you wait more than five minutes after I left?”
Caspian glances at me, confused, but I cut in, keeping my voice almost calm. “Not that it’s any of your business, Caspian was there for me. Picking up the pieces after you broke my heart.”
The words hang heavy. Xaden’s eyes flash hurt, jealousy, disappointment. I try not to care.
“So you’re happy now?” His voice carries something darker. “Nice house, cute kid, date nights. Real tidy life.”
“At least I don’t sleep with everyone I meet,” I snarl.
His mouth opens, then clamps shut. Finally he scowls: “So only with Caspian then?”
Neither of us answers. Caspian takes a step forward but I touch his elbow, stopping him.
Xaden looks so gutted that, for a split second, his pain cuts through me. I should tell him the truth. But I don’t. Instead, I meet his gaze, daring him.
His next words come in a rush, angry and bitter. “Caspian’s what? Safer? Easier? From a better background?”
“Certainly easier,” I retort, regretting it instantly. It’s not even true. Caspian’s complicated, just not in the way that rips my heart out.