Chapter 6
The alley behind the bar reeks of fried food, stale beer, and a lifetime of bad decisions. Dim streetlights buzz overhead, illuminating the collection of cigarette butts, shattered glass, and a dumpster that is convincing me it’s hiding something illegal. Or dead.
And right in the middle of all that glory, Demi’s clinging to the bartender with the tenacity of a rabid koala. Her legs cinch tight around his waist, arms windmilling, and cursing loud enough to paint the air with so much color it could be sold as abstract art.
“You motherfucker! You cockless, soulless, fun-sucking—”
“Jesus Christ, would you stop?” The bartender—built as if he personally lifts kegs for fun—plants his feet and peels off the stubborn leech in human form.
Demi lands on her feet with the grace of a drunk cat, her hair disheveled and breathing hard, but still glaring up at him with undiminished fire. “Do you have no shame throwing out a woman defending her friend’s honor, or are you just an asshole?”
He straightens his jeans and twisted shirt and steps back. “You throw a punch at a barely-legal blonde, and suddenly I’m the asshole?”
“She deserved it. And barely-legal? Do men even look at girl’s faces anymore, or is it just straight to the tits?”
“She definitely deserved it,” I chime in. My heels click against the cracked pavement as I stop just short of the two of them. “My friend simply enforced some basic street justice.”
He crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Justice doesn’t usually involve pulling out extensions.”
Demi rakes her fingers through that fiery red hair, not a hint of guilt in sight. “They were fucking clip-ins. Bitch can’t even afford to get them professionally installed.”
The bartender exhales through his nose and presses his fingers to his temple. “Yeah, well, it’s a shame you wasted your takedown on someone who didn’t deserve that kind of energy. You’re banned. Forever.”
Demi snorts. “Oh, forever? What is this, the fucking Roman Empire?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “No, but I am the fucking justice system in this establishment, and you”—he pokes her in the forehead, pushing her back a step—“are a goddamn liability.”
Demi lets out a gasp so offended you’d think he just smacked her grandma. I pinch my lips together and clear my throat to keep myself from laughing.
Then he turns to me, his expression softening as if my obvious mortification still lingers on my face. “You, on the other hand, can come back whenever. But you might wanna consider picking less homicidal friends.”
I fold my arms. “Not a chance.”
His eyes flick between us, and something akin to amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Figures.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Will, by the way. Y’all got names, or should I just refer to you as Menace to Society and her loyal partner in crime?”
I shake his hand. “Sable.” I jerk a thumb at my gremlin of a best friend. “And Menace is Demi.”
“Charmed,” Demi deadpans with a too-honeyed smile as if still plotting her way back in.
Will smirks, then sobers a bit. “Y’all good to drive?”
“We walked,” I say. “I live a few streets over.” I jerk my head toward Demi. “And nobody’s fucking with me while I walk my pitbull home.”
Will laughs under his breath and shoots Demi a look. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Demi flips him off.
Will shakes his head, already heading back inside. “Good luck with that one,” he calls over his shoulder.
I grin, but Demi’s not done.
“We don’t need luck,” she shouts as a final stand. “WE HAVE ALCOHOL AND POOR JUDGEMENT.”
And with that, we start walking, Demi still fuming, me still laughing, and Main Street buzzing behind us as if at almost forty years old we weren’t just unceremoniously dumped into the alley like last night’s trash.
Back at my house, the familiar scent of vanilla candles and old wood welcomes me like a hug. The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the hallway clock feel like a lullaby after the holy mess at the bar.
Demi is already strutting around in a pair of my sweatpants that puddle around her ankles, pure ‘90s skater jeans energy. She’s always treated my space as her own, and there’s something about that comfort I love.
She feels permanent, unbothered, unbreakable.
In one hand, she’s sucking down an applesauce pouch with the dedication of a post-soccer game kid, and with the other, she’s rifling through my pantry with the determination of a treasure hunter. No sense of order. No shame.
“You seriously don’t have any good snacks?” she calls over her shoulder, her voice muffled by the bag of stale pita chips she’s digging out from the back.
I glance over from my spot in the living room, where I’ve been watching the tornado whip through. “Define ‘good.’”
She waves the applesauce pouch in the air. “Not fucking these.”
I shrug. “Bash likes them.”
Her glare lands hard, all righteous indignation and silent accusation. “You have failed him.” Then she heads back to the living room with the assortment she’s got tucked under her arm and dramatically flops back onto the couch, legs crossed, crumbs everywhere.
I take a slow breath and look around the house, letting my gaze wander over the space that used to be ours—Andrew’s and mine—but always mine by law.
The hardwood floorboards betray only the ghost of his passage.
Every wall wears the furniture I restored myself—the battered oak chair whose leather I stitched patch by patch, the walnut dresser I refused to sell even when I could’ve doubled the price.
On the far wall, my degree hangs in a matte-black frame—a silent middle finger to everyone who ever said I couldn’t. I did all of this on my own.
Andrew never left a mark because he never wanted to. For ten years, he held up a neon sign flashing I don’t belong here, and I just kept pretending I didn’t see it.
Tonight feels different, though. For the first time in years, someone tried to make me run from my own life, and I didn’t.
Well, Demi didn’t let me. The memory of Ashley’s smug face flashes through my mind—the way she invaded my space, dropped Andrew’s name like a weapon, waited for me to crumble.
But I held my ground. Even when every instinct screamed at me to flee, I stayed.
I shake the thought away, watching Demi transform my organized living room into her personal chaos zone. It’s oddly comforting—her ability to bounce back from throwing punches to rifling through my snacks like nothing happened. Some things never change.
She pops open my laptop, now buried in a nest of pillows and throw blankets she’s yanked from their perfectly folded spots, completely unbothered by the disaster she’s made of my couch.
“Alright, so what’s the plan for Stalker Barbie?” she asks, fingers already flying across the keyboard.
I groan. “Demi, please tell me you’re not—”
“I’m just doing some light research.”
I lean over and instantly regret it. The screen is filled with a website that looks dangerous. Dark backgrounds, red text, and a loading bar that gives off a distinctly illegal vibe.
“Demi, what the fuck is this?”
She smirks and wiggles her fingers ominously. “The dark web.”
“The what?!” I slam the laptop shut so fast she nearly loses a finger.
My heart hammers against my ribs. After everything tonight—Ashley showing up, the confrontation, getting kicked out—my safe space feels more precious than ever. The last thing I need is Demi inviting actual danger into my home.
She glares. “You’re overreacting.”
“What are you going to do? Hire a fucking hitman?”
She scoffs as if I’m the one being absurd. “They’re not hitmen, they’re professional handlers. You don’t even have to know what happens to the problem… they just handle it. I’m outsourcing.” She shrugs, as if this is the most obvious, ethical solution in the world.
I rub my temples. “You need to stop drinking.”
“You need to start.” She gasps, noticing we have no drinks. “And I will not be silenced.”
Before I can argue, she’s already on her feet, wandering back to the pantry. “I swear I saw a bottle of wine in here.”
I sigh and turn my attention back to my laptop, this time with safe intentions.
I type in the name of the bar, Ruin's End, half-wondering if Hex is somewhere laughing about what a disaster Demi and I are.
The website is sleek, moody—dark colors, grunge-style fonts, and obscure, shadowy images meant to fit some mysterious aesthetic. I scroll until I hit the About Us page.
Hector Alvarez.
The name sits there in bold lettering under an artsy, backlit photo that’s more shadow than person. Figures. Even his picture has a mysterious attitude.
I stare at the screen, remembering the way he moved through the pandemonium of tonight—quiet authority, no drama, just solving what needed solving.
Right beneath the picture is a contact form, inviting guests to reach out for inquiries. My cursor hovers over it for a long moment. What would I even say? Thanks for handling my stalker ex-side piece? Sorry my friend turned your bar into a WWE SmackDown?
Before I can spiral too far into my curiosity, Demi comes barreling back in, waving a bottle of something deeply questionable.
I squint at the label. “Where the hell did you find that?”
She lights up. “Your mom left it. Some random cocktail ingredient she swore she’d master eventually. That woman is sixty-five and thriving. I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself old again.”
Demi pours us shots into the only thing she can find—Bash’s old sippy cups. Then she lifts them, solemn and expectant, as though honoring something bigger than both of us.
“Tractors or puppies?” she asks.
I stare at her. “What?”
She gives the cups a shake, apparently convinced that’ll make things clearer. “Which one do you want? Tractors or puppies?”
I sigh and grab the one with puppies on it, thinking about how only several hours ago my biggest concern was whether my feet would survive the night. Now I’m drinking questionable liquor from my son’s sippy cups while my best friend plots revenge via the dark web.
“To disorderly conduct,” Demi declares, raising her tractor cup.
“To survival,” I counter.
Because, apparently, this is my life now.