Chapter 14 Talon’s Past
For the longest time, I’ve carried this brilliant fucking theory:
If I don’t touch her, Rhea stays safe.
Keep my distance. Hands in pockets. Zero contamination.
She’s just a good person who met the wrong guy and started blushing too hard.
And I know myself better than anyone: I’m always the asshole striking the match and then standing there like, wow, arson, who could’ve possibly foreseen? So for once in my life, I’m trying not to burn the golden thing on impact.
If she’s meant to go hollow like me, the town will do the work for me.
So I stay the hell back, even when every instinct I have is clawing toward her.
See, I can imitate light like a fucking Olympian.
I know my act. Give me five minutes with someone and before they’ve even realized what hit them, they’re riding a dopamine rush.
That’s my whole trick: cheap thrills on tap.
People walk away convinced they had a good time, or that I’m good for them, or that I’m somehow less rotten than the rumors say.
But underneath?
I’m Pavlov’s fucking carnival.
I don’t know whether Rhea sees it, likes it, pretends not to, or is just so blindingly earnest she refuses to believe I’m a walking fake.
But she stays. She hangs out with me. And she never asks about the Fisher–Rey bullshit.
It’s like she came from another world, and except for her hours behind the bar, she doesn’t belong to this one at all.
We talk about everything and nothing.
And honestly?
I live for those moments.
Sometimes it feels like they’re the only reason the clock bothers to roll over into another morning.
So today, I slip into her bar, drop into my usual seat, and breathe it in. Today is one of those moments again—one of the rare ones where I can exist without armor for two whole fucking lungfuls of mercy.
And then—
My curse walks in behind me.
Three men wearing Rey’s colors swagger in like they bought the deed to the place. They’re loud before they’re even through the door. One of them drops a cigarette right on the floor and grinds it out with his boot while looking Rhea dead in the eyes.
The regulars go still. Rhea goes stiller. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Barely breathes. Just flicks her gaze once, toward me.
That flick is all I need to know this is going to go sideways fast.
First mistake: I got protective of her.
What can I say? She’s new. She’s sweet. She’s pretty. She’s prey-shaped.
And I like her more than I should.
Second mistake: These guys aren’t here to drink. Rey’s a decent enough king, but he’s running his court like a leaky bucket. His boys spill everywhere. They are loud, sloppy, and on no fucking leash. They’re like feral dogs chewing scenery because no one’s bothered to put them down yet.
Last week, some of Rey’s guys wrecked the laundromat on Fifth. Not over money. Not even over turf. One of them just decided the old lady folding shirts didn’t “show him respect.”
On their own damn land.
They tore the place apart in broad daylight. Tossed baskets full of clean clothes into the street, dumped detergent everywhere until it foamed across the tile. One genius even unzipped and pissed on a washing machine like he was marking territory.
Heard about it. Word of mouth.
Made me sick.
And something tells me this bunch is the same type.
The tallest one clocks Rhea behind the counter. His grin spreads slow and filthy.
It makes my teeth ache.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “pour us something strong. Don’t be stingy.”
One of the others peels off toward me, drags out a chair, and flips it backward to straddle it. For a moment, they pretend not to see me—and that’s how I know they absolutely do.
I’m not in the mood. Truth is, I don’t think I ever could be. Not in this bar. Not with this girl running tabs. Not ever.
“You wanna drink, you gotta pay first, dude,” I tell the one who ordered the booze.
He looks at me funny. Not in the oops-my-bad way either.
“We pay in protection,” he says. “Ain’t nobody gonna bother you, pretty lady.” He turns to Rhea. “Not when we’re around.”
Uh-uh.
“Not much trouble around here,” I say. It’s pointless, because these guys already know that. That’s why they came. They’re not the ones who keep the peace—they’re the ones who destroy it.
In hindsight, that’s probably why he recognizes me.
If you’re always hunting fights, you learn the faces you’re allowed to unleash on.
The guy straddling the chair leans forward, elbows on the backrest. “Wait a damn minute,” he says. “I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Yeah?” I cock my head. Rhea gives me a warning look from behind the counter; I don’t let my eyes linger on her anymore.
“Yeah… You’re Fisher’s little speed demon.”
“Got me confused with someone.”
“Hell no,” another pipes up. “You crashed a race years back.”
My gut clenches, but my face stays flat.
Crashing Rey’s race. Four of his guys dead. A girl in the passenger seat…
I lift my pint, sip slow, let the foam coat my lip while Rey’s boy stares me down. Outside I’m calm, smirk locked in place. Inside I want to bash his head against the counter and watch red splatter.
“Got me confused with someone else, champ,” I repeat. “Really.”
His grin doesn’t budge. “Well… maybe. But Rey’s still got a score to settle with that fucker, and you look a lot like him.”
“Regardless,” I brush him off. “Pay first.”
Part of me already knows there isn’t a sentence in the English language long enough to stop these fuckers from escalating.
If words were that powerful, I’d be president by now, delivering policy reforms with a smile and a wink instead of contemplating how far I can shove a bar stool up someone’s colon.
Still, I tried.
For Rhea.
“Are you deaf or something?” he sneers. “I said there’s a score to be settled.”
The other two laugh, low and ugly. He leans in.
Anger prickles under my arms. Under my ribs. Under everything.
This night was supposed to be a reprieve. A couple hours of pretending the world outside didn’t exist, of letting Rhea stack glasses behind the counter, and feeling okay about myself.
Instead, I’m here dealing with these motherfuckers.
I slam the pint down harder than intended. Foam jumps the rim and dribbles over my knuckles. I cock a brow. Smile. I have two smiles: the one for the girls, and the one that makes people realize they should’ve walked away five minutes ago. He’s getting the latter one.
“Rey’s such a petty bitch that he’s still crying about a race?” I ask, voice all innocence and sunshine. “That’s the terrifying brand you boys rep? Mascot of the sore-loser championships?”
Rhea’s eyes flash toward me, glossy with panic, like she wants to gasp but her lungs are frozen.
But I’m not going to cower, apologize, or tuck tail and slink out the back door. I didn’t even do much to Rey, not really. Just existed in the wrong orbit with the wrong crowd. The only crime I ever committed against him was proximity. Meanwhile his boys? Once killed my girl with smiles on.
The guy’s smirk stretches thin. His two goons shift: one elbows the jukebox until it chokes out a skip in the music, the other leans far too close to Rhea.
The grin curdles into a snarl.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he says. “Talking about Rey like that in his own fucking backyard? You suicidal, pretty boy?”
The whole bar stills.
Regulars peel off their stools, muttering excuses about smoke breaks, cigarettes, wives waiting at home. One by one, they file toward the door. By the time the hinges squeal shut, it’s just me, Rhea, and three of Rey’s hyenas.
The one straddling the chair slaps his palm against the backrest. “Rey’s name don’t belong in your mouth. Say it again and we’ll carve it out.”
Rhea flinches. She’s terrified now. I wish I could say something to her out loud, but I can’t. So I just meet her gaze and send the message silently.
Go.
Save yourself.
I can handle this.
I fold back in my chair, lazy posture, like all this is nothing for me.
“Boys,” I sigh, bored. “You’re really fucking loony. All three of you.”
And just like that, boom, fuse hits powder.
Chair-straddler rockets upright so violently his chair goes flying backward like it personally offended him. It skids, slams into the bar, and makes Rhea jump.
“The fuck you say?” he growls.
Jukebox guy’s already stomping toward me, shoulders forward, fists twitching like his neurons get dopamine only from assault charges. The third one peels off Rhea at last, grin fading to something sharp and feral.
“You just signed your death warrant,” tall one spits.
I tip my pint back like we’re doing brunch and I’m hydrating responsibly. Finish it. Set it down slow. “Guess I did.”
He lunges.
Everything erupts.
The first punch cracks off my cheekbone. The second I block with my forearm. Pain flares hot, but I grab him and hurl him back; he smashes spine-first into a table, bottles exploding on impact. Wood screeches.
I’m not superhuman. I’m not unkillable.
But I am comfortable in pain. Too comfortable.
So when the third punch drills my ribs? I let it land. Let it hollow out my lungs. Let it wake me up.
I cock my fist, ready to swing back—
—but then the tall bastard pulls a gun.
Everything stops.
My brain turns into a blender full of static: doubt, guilt, regret, all whirling at once.
What the fuck am I even doing here?
Why did I provoke these idiots?
Lark’s gone. Been gone. So why am I dragging Rhea into this?
But the realization hits too late, right as the bullet does.
The impact folds me. My back hits the counter. My ears are ringing, heartbeat stuttering in my ribcage.
The tall one grins, gun trembling in his hand, eyes wild and drunk on power.
“What do you have to say now, huh?” he barks. “Should’ve kept your mouth shut about Rey.”
I want to lunge. I want to rip the gun from his hand and jam it down his throat until he burps brass.
But my legs aren’t listening. My blood’s leaking too fast, hot as wildfire.
Wow, Talon, I think. You’ve really done it this time. Real brain-genius move.
Except—