Chapter 2 Xaden #10
“You know, it might be illegal to look as good as you,” he says, deadpan, and I snort, poking his rib. He takes my hand, grinning, but then his grin fades. The heat in his eyes warms up my chest.
Then: another buzz. A screenshot this time. “I swear,” I mutter, trying to make sense of the words.
ANTONIO : so you don’t like me?? that’s what that meant???
CASPIAN : What???
ANTONIO : tombstone, candle, shy face, shocked face? what r u saying?
Xaden snorts. “If I’d known Caspian’s this clueless, I wouldn’t have been so jealous.”
More texts fly:
CASPIAN : “What did I say? I didn’t even know I had a tombstone emoji! It was an accident. But the candle means something romantic, right? Help me Cole!”
I type fast:
COLE : “Forget the tombstone — why did you send him a shy face and a shocked face? You basically told him he reminds you of your dead grandmother and it’s awkward. You literally ghosted him. Ha ha.”
Xaden laughs. “Savage.”
“He deserves it.”
CASPIAN : “NOT FUNNY! I’M GOING TO THROW UP! HOW DO I FIX THIS?”
CASPIAN : “I’M COMING OVER!”
I groan. “Well. He’s coming over.”
“Can I still be here?” Xaden asks, and the careful way he says it wrecks me a little.
“Of course. I wouldn’t deprive you of the delight that is Caspian Stone panicking in the name of love.”
Ten minutes later, Caspian bursts in — flushed, hair chaotic, phone aloft — then freezes at the sight of us on the couch. He stares at our linked hands like he just walked in on a crime scene.
“Do I need to know anything about this?” he asks, eyes ping-ponging.
“No, you don’t,” Xaden says easily. I nod.
“Thank God. Because I’m having a crisis.” He wedges himself between us without asking. “How do I fix this? Should I never use emojis again?”
“Yes,” I say. “From now on, words only. Just avoid death metaphors.”
“He already thinks I’m old,” Caspian moans. “Now he knows I don’t understand emojis. He’s going to ditch me.”
“He’s not,” I promise. “Text: I do like you. I panicked. Accidentally sent you a ghost story.”
He types like he’s defusing a bomb. We wait.
Ping.
ANTONIO : U r so clueless. And a menace.
Caspian’s eyes shine with relief. “That’s… good? Right?”
“It’s good,” I assure him. Then I grin. “I’m telling this story at your wedding.” He groans into a cushion.
XADEN
Caspian leaves buzzing with relief and nerves, and quiet returns. Cole walks me to the porch. The air smells like rain on warm pavement, sugar floating from someone’s late-night baking. The porch light glows against his curls, his jaw, the place my thumb wants to rest.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he says softly.
“Yeah?” I ask, because sometimes you need to hear the thing you already know.
He nods, eyes flicking between mine and my mouth — shy, yes, but steady. I brush my fingers along his jaw. He leans into it. Just enough.
Then I kiss him. Soft. Intentional. A promise, not a plea.
Cole wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer, and I groan. Could I please get him back to that couch and show him how the way he’s been acting lately is honest-to-God ruining me?
When we pull back, his eyes stay shut for a beat, like he’s letting the moment root. He opens them and the smile he gives me is slow, warm, devastating. “Goodnight, Xaden.”
“Goodnight, Cole.” I take the steps slower than I need to, because I want to keep this feeling intact for as long as possible.
I can still taste him on my lips when the shadows shift at the curb.
JJ steps out from behind a tree, half-lit by the streetlamp. Ronnie’s beside him, arms crossed, working a toothpick like it’s supposed to scare me.
“Long time no fuckin’ see,” JJ says, slick. I stop. Don’t reach for my keys. Don’t react. Just look bored.
“You’ve been real quiet lately,” Ronnie adds.
“You need something?” I ask flatly.
JJ smirks. “We see the way you look at him. He’s a liability.”
“Cole?” I scoff, lazy. “He’s nothing.” The words taste like broken glass. My chest knots, because I can still feel his kiss on my mouth, the warmth of him lingering like it belongs there. But I don’t let it touch my face. Not here. Not with them.
JJ’s mouth crooks. “Didn’t look like nothing when you kissed him on his porch.”
“‘Goodnight, Cole… goodnight, Xaden,’” Ronnie lilts in a falsetto, cackling. “Sounded real romantic.”
My jaw tightens; my face doesn’t. “What I do with him is my business.”
Ronnie steps closer. “Big Sam doesn’t like guys with feelings. Says it clouds judgment. Makes things messy.”
“Who said anything about feelings?” I let a flicker of irritation through, just enough to sell it. “I haven’t forgotten who I work for. I’ve been waiting on the text you were supposed to send me.”
JJ tilts his head, then nods slowly. “Alright, Bailey. On account of Sam still thinkin’ you’re useful.” He slides me a piece of paper with an address. “Tomorrow, eight.”
He leans in. “Be fuckin’ grateful you’re still invited.”
Ronnie flicks his toothpick onto the sidewalk like a mic drop. “Friendly advice? The more you hang around with your little prince, the more Keith’s ears perk up. You know how he is. Always wants other people’s toys. And the way he plays with ‘em? Can get brutal.”
My hands stay loose at my sides. “Duly noted.”
They melt back into the dark like cockroaches. I stand there a second longer, fists relaxed by force of will, breath even.
Then I look back at the porch where Cole just told me with his mouth and his eyes that he’s still here.
The clock just sped up. Fine. So will I.
The Lost Anchor is the kind of place where time sticks to the walls like old nicotine. Yellowed ceilings. Flickering neon beer signs. A jukebox that skips mid-song. Tables carved with initials, lies, and bad deals. It’s the kind of place where people disappear — and nobody asks why.
JJ’s already in the back. Ronnie’s beside him, hunched like a hunting dog, scanning the crowd like he’s hoping for a knife fight. They’re wound tight tonight. This isn’t about petty theft anymore.
I slide into the seat opposite them, my beer bottle landing with a soft clink.
JJ smirks. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss family night.”
Ronnie chuckles. “Who’s kissin’ your blondie goodnight now?” I ignore him, crack open my beer. Outside calm, inside Morse code of fury.
The crowd’s thin. Everyone keeps their back to the wall.
Then the room shifts.
Big Sam walks in — broad shoulders, expensive leather jacket, flanked by Keith and Callum. Keith gives me a leering look. I flip him off.
Sam heads straight for the red curtain behind the bar. The real room.
JJ jerks his chin. “Come on.”
Inside, one bulb swings over a round table.
The room looks like a leftover setting from a bad action movie.
Sam taps his ring against the table in a steady beat.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mike’s flipped.
And loose ends don’t just tangle — they strangle.
But I have no intention to get strangled. ”
I slide into the empty chair next to Keith, already dreading whatever he’ll fire my way about Cole.
Sam looks around. “Someone tipped the cops about our last drop,” he adds. “Shipment barely left the yard.” Shipment. The word clicks — crates. The same kind Keller showed me.
Sam’s gaze sweeps the table, lands on me. “You trust him, JJ?”
JJ hesitates, then nods, almost reluctantly. “He’s solid. Took a beatin’ for my friend inside. From Willis.”
Callum flinches, almost sympathetic. Sam studies me and after a beat, nods.
Then the door opens and Sheriff Willard steps in. Out of uniform, but still wearing that smug authority. His eyes find me and darken. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I touch the brim of my cap. “Evening, Sheriff.”
“You sure about him, Sam?”
Willard’s not looking at Sam like the others around me. He’s looking at him like they’re equals.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “I check my people.”
Willard scoffs. “You trust too easy. You checked his shoes?”
JJ bristles. “You think we were born yesterday?”
Willard cuts him down with a look, then leans toward Sam, voice low. “We still need that last load cleared before the heat gets closer.”
Sam’s voice is calm. “Keith’s got it covered.”
We stand to leave soon after that.
Willard steps just enough to block me, the menace radiating from every pore. “Your father thought he was smarter than me, too.”
The words are a blade.
I walk past without a flinch, fists tight all the way into the night.
You’re going down, you bastard.
COLE
Summer Activity Standard Premium Deluxe Package for preschoolers has one actually useful class: Henry’s photography workshop.
A dozen kids are clutching disposable cameras while Henry stands at the front with his usual calm, sounding less like an instructor and more like a monk leading meditation.
“See how the sun hits the window?” he says, pointing at the way light spills in a rectangle across the floor. “That’s your free spotlight. Watch how it changes what you see.”
Noah is crouched under a chair, taking a close-up of someone’s sneakers. Another kid gleefully documents the trash can.
Henry moves between them, lowering himself to their level, pointing out angles, shadows, little details adults forget to notice.
“Photography is mostly about knowing where and when to look,” I hear him explain to Noah.
Then the door opens.
J?rgen steps in, broad shoulders practically blocking the light, scanning the room until he spots his son. “Sammy,” he calls.
The boy barrels into him and immediately starts whispering, very seriously, about photographing a pigeon that looked mean. J?rgen listens, nodding solemnly, his whole focus bent toward his son.
Then he glances at Henry, and I swear there’s something sparkling in his piercing blue eyes when they land on Henry’s wiry frame.
“Thanks for this,” he says. “Sammy’s been talking about it all week.”
Henry fidgets with the strap of his camera bag and clears his throat. “He has a good eye. Caught a shadow on the basketball hoop I didn’t even notice.”