Chapter 9
Hammering…
… with a sledgehammer…
… in my fucking head.
Each relentless throb vibrating between my temples makes me want to curl up and die.
And…
God, the taste.
My mouth is a graveyard of bad choices. It’s dry, sour, and coated in something acrid that refuses to let go. Every breath reminds me I did something regrettable. I swallow, trying to ease the burn in my throat, but it doesn’t help.
I groan, slowly pushing myself up from the couch, regretting every inch of movement as the world tilts. Why would I do this to myself? There is no recovering from a hangover at thirty-nine. Only death.
Any attempts to gather my thoughts, the words scatter. It feels like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle that’s missing half the pieces. All I can focus on is the uncomfortable sensation of my pulse pounding in my head.
What happened last night? And how much water can I consume without drowning?
I try to retrace my steps, but everything is a blur. I vaguely remember messaging someone… no, who did I message? Did I send anything to Andrew?
My stomach tightens. Please, God, don’t let me have texted him.
I fumble for my phone, my fingers sluggish, uncooperative. I manage to unlock the screen, and a wave of relief washes over me when I see only old messages about Bash. Thank fucking God.
But then I catch sight of my laptop, sitting innocently on the coffee table. The pull is subtle but insistent, demanding I open it and confront whatever mistake is waiting inside.
I push myself up, nausea rising, but I don’t stop.
I drag my legs over the edge of the couch.
One foot thuds to the floor. Then the other.
I haul the top half of me forward and reach.
My fingers are slow, trembling as I open the laptop and type my password.
The screen blinks to life. A barrage of additional screens open, but a dark broody website catches my eye—
Ruin's End.
My stomach drops.
What the hell?
I lean in. My contacts are dried to my eyeballs. That’s it, because I can’t be seeing things right. My heart pounds in my chest, eyes scanning line after line. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s on the screen is a mess I can’t undo.
Demi appears in the hallway, her energy bouncing off the walls, bubblier than I can handle right now. She stops when she sees me.
“Why do you look like you’re about to cry?” she asks, brows knit with concern.
I let out a shaky breath and show her the laptop screen, pointing to the open conversation. “This.”
Her brows furrow even more as she leans in to read. Fingertips fly through her sleep mussed red hair. She doesn’t say anything for a beat, then looks up at me, lips curling into a smile.
“Oh, come on,” she says, almost laughing. “Look at this as a win. A funny story. It’s the freaking bar website. ‘Ruin's End.’” She tosses up air quotes, dripping with sarcasm, already prepared to wage eternal war against the place.
“Yeah, let’s hope,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead. “Nothing went too far, and I didn’t hire a hitman. Thank God. The guy said his name was H.” I stare at the screen again, my heart still thumping against my ribs. “It could be Hex—Hector, couldn’t it? What if he reports me to the police?”
Demi shrugs, clearly more amused than concerned. “He could.”
I open another tab on the website, this time clicking on the About Us section.
“That doesn’t concern you?” I question my friend.
“One drunken night? Nah. Nothing to worry about. A mistake. I think you actually have to exchange money for it to be a crime. You didn’t CashApp him, did you?” She’s making her way to the kitchen I pray to make coffee.
I read about the bar’s founding, a couple of years ago, scrolling down to Hector Alvarez’s bio.
I pull my blanket around my shoulders and crane my neck to read it again. Sober.
The bio makes him sound… wholesome, oddly enough.
The kind of guy you’d expect to be running some upscale lounge, not taking hitman requests.
His profile mentions his background in business, and that he’s dedicated to making Ruin's End a place where people come for more than just drinks. It even says he’s “known for his personality” and “for going the extra mile for his patrons.”
I shut the laptop with a sigh, shoulders caving in.
“I’m going to go in and talk to him. Make sure he knows I sent this”—I wave in circles at my laptop—“without thinking. Drunk. Stupid. A mistake, just like you called it.”
“It’s fine, Sable,” Demi says after a long pause. “Seriously. The guy probably laughed it off.”
“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “I need to go there and make sure he doesn’t think I tried to hire a hitman.
I don’t care what he thinks of me. I just need to make it clear.
I own a business in this town and so does he.
We will cross paths, and I don’t need him thinking Thorne Revival is run by a paranoid woman looking to commit murder. ”
Demi rolls her eyes dramatically. “Babe, WE are banned FOR LIFE. Remember?”
I wince. “You are banned.”
“You’re not going to get in there. But I’d be happy to wait for you outside.” She grins wickedly.
I shoot her a look. “So helpful, Demi. I’m a big girl who can go by herself.”
“You know what I mean,” she says with a shrug.
She’s shouting from the kitchen now, banging cabinet doors looking for k-cups that are right next to the coffee machine.
“You’ve got time. The bar opens at six on Saturdays if I remember correctly.
You can catch ‘H’ before the crowd comes in.
And Bash is with Andrew until Sunday night, right? ”
I stare at her, my mind already working through the conversation I am going to have with him. If I get there early enough, it might not be too bad. I can apologize, explain the mix-up, and get the hell out.
I make my way down Main Street, realizing just how close Ruin's End is to my shop. Only two streets over. My jeans are comfortable, not too tight. My T-shirt is simple, but maybe a bit low cut. But again not tight, so really it’s not a big deal.
This is my go-to mom ensemble. Sweet, harmless, and just convincing enough to fit the identity motherhood carved out for me.
Still a little jumpy, but significantly more hydrated, I’m inching back toward basic human functionality after last night’s mess.
I’ll just apologize to this guy, clear the air, and get the hell out and back to my normal, safe existence where I don’t drink alcohol and try to hire hitmen or “handlers.”
The bar looks mostly closed, which makes sense, since it’s two hours before opening. But surely someone has to be here, right? People have to get a bar ready. How long does that take, I wonder?
I see a light on through the glass of the front window, so I step closer and knock on the door. I wait a beat, but there’s no answer.
Frowning, I peer through the window again. I can see movement in the back. They likely can’t hear. Maybe they’re getting ready. Without thinking, I decide to walk around the building to the alley. I’ll try the other door.
The alley sits quiet in the midday light, framed by the faded brick of the century-old establishment.
I nearly turn on my heel, but then catch sight of a familiar door, the same one they escorted us out of last night.
I knock again—this time harder—my knuckles rattling the warped wood as a pulse of impatience thrums through my fingertips.
The door creaks open.
A shirtless Hex.
Black sweats slung low on his hips, his hair damp and slightly curling at the ends. The scent of soap still clinging to the air around him. He looks surprised to see me, smoldering brown eyes widening as the afternoon light glints off their depth. Then his brow knits into that inscrutable crease.
I’m caught off guard by the sight of him looking… too good.
I realize I’m leaning into his space, and I immediately straighten.
“Can I help you?” he asks, voice rough, still carrying that commanding tone, but there’s something new in it, something that makes me freeze for a moment longer than I should.
I swallow, words suddenly lodged in my throat. It takes a second to gather myself, but I push through the moment.
“I—uh—I just wanted to check in. About last night. You know, just to clear the air.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, his gaze more intense than it should be for a simple encounter.
“I didn’t think you’d be… here,” I say, trying to pull myself together. But it’s hard when he’s standing there, looking like that. His warmth unexpectedly makes my senses go awry.
Hex leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying me. A flicker of amusement crosses his eyes. “Then who were you looking for?”
I hesitate. My throat suddenly feels dry.
“H?”
I say it as if the letter’s a stranger to my mouth, a foreign sound I’m clumsily trying out for the first time.
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. “That’s me. Hex.”
I blink. Stare. Process.
I need him to acknowledge the conversation. The messages—along with the wildly unfortunate implication that I drunkenly tried to hire a hitman—linger like a storm cloud over me.
I try to have the conversation with my eyes, willing him to give me something.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there. Bare chested. Looking so fucking hot.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, cross my arms, uncross them, feel my palms get weirdly clammy. This is me—showcasing the subtle grace of someone trying not to piss themselves.
Finally, he nods toward the apartment. “You wanna come in?”
“Yes.”
I freeze. I said yes?
Something shutters in his gaze before he steps back, giving me space to enter. I swallow hard and follow him up the stairs, nerves buzzing.
His apartment surprises me. It’s not the open, loft-style that catches me off guard from this man who runs a bar. It’s the intention across the space: clean lines, dark woods, a balance of modern and masculine touches. There’s no clutter.