Chapter 1
One
Lane
A loud bang comes out of nowhere.
My body reacts before my brain catches up; the vodka bottle slips from my hand and crashes to the tile, the sharp crack echoing off the paneled walls. Shards scatter across the floor, and the sting of alcohol fills the air.
My breath catches, half scream, half sob, and for a heartbeat, I’m no longer at The Broken Bottle.
I’m back there.
Byron’s shadow filling the doorway. His face twisted in anger as I raised the gun.
My pulse thunders in my ears, my vision tunneling.
I slap a hand against the wall, fingers splayed on the cool, slightly sticky wood as I force air into my lungs.
In. Out. In. Out.
It was just fireworks, leftovers from last week's Fourth of July celebration. Not Byron. He’s dead, Lane.
My eyes scan the bar around me, letting it drag me back to this place, this life.
The stale stench of cigarettes that clings to the walls no matter how many times they are scrubbed. The burn holes scattered like constellations across the ugly brown carpet that takes up the front half of the bar. The jukebox humming in the corner, waiting for someone to feed it a dollar.
Seriously, who puts carpet in a bar?
The absurdity is what grounds me. That, and the fact that Byron Knox is rotting six feet under.
I made sure of it.
The memory resurfaces again before I can stop it. His shocked expression, frozen in place like a grotesque portrait. The recoil of the gun vibrating through my bones. The acrid sting of gunpowder that clung to my skin and stung the back of my throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe. You’re Lane Maddox now. Not Ceciley.
Lane Maddox lives in New Haven, Pennsylvania.
The population here is small enough that the biggest scandal in the last five years was a floral sabotage.
It was a whole deal. Mrs. Webster supposedly put lime in Mrs. Porter's hydrangeas, turning them the wrong color for the “Best in Bloom” contest, pushing her out of the ribbon contention.
Nobody in this town would recognize the socialite wife I used to be. Nobody’s looking for her here. I pour drinks and mop sticky floors, scraping by in a dive bar where smoking is still legal and the fryer groans like a dying dinosaur. It’s not glamorous. It’s not much.
But it’s mine. I changed my name. I changed my hair. Hell, I’ve even changed my damn soul.
My breathing steadies but the tremor in my hands remains.
I crouch down to clean up the mess of broken glass and vodka that glitters across the floor.
I hiss when my fingers close around a small jagged piece, the sharp edge slicing into my skin.
“Damn it,” I mutter, just as the front door squeaks open.
“Hey, Lane. Everything alright?” Hank’s familiar voice carries across the bar. He ambles toward his usual spot, gray t-shirt shrugging against his wide shoulders, the kind of man who has been middle-aged since thirty.
I straighten and plaster on a smile. “Yeah, Hank. All good. Just a little clumsy today.” I wipe my hands on a clean towel and pick up a pint glass. “Your usual?” I ask, already reaching for the Pbr.
“You know me too well, darling.” He lowers himself onto his creaking throne at the end of the bar, eyes roaming the empty space. “Bar’s quiet today.”
“It’s still early.” I pull the tap and it sticks halfway like it always does. I give it the practiced yank and golden liquid fills his glass. “How’s Martha?” I ask, sliding it across on a coaster so faded you can barely read the word Budweiser.
“She’s still pissed that I spend more time here than at home.” He leans back, the stool groaning in protest.
I snort, one hip propped against the bar. “Well, maybe you should tip me better, then I’d lie for you when she calls.”
He barks a laugh. “Yeah, right. After 37 years of marriage, she’s got a sixth sense when it comes to my bullshit.”
Despite the sting of vodka in the air and the memory that still clings like smoke, a smile pulls at my lips. I mop the mess with practiced strokes, the rhythm calming me. This bar, this town; they saved me in ways they’ll never know.
Chip, the bear of a man who gave me the job even though my ‘bartending experience’ was a bald-faced lie. Kam, who taught me how to choose furniture for comfort rather than appearance. The regulars who make me feel like I’ve always belonged here.
I never pictured myself tending bar in a hole-in-the-wall where the neon sign buzzes louder than the crowd and the fryer coughs grease like it’s on life support.
But now, it feels like freedom.
Nobody tells me what to wear. Nobody controls when I speak. Nobody puts bruises on my body for breathing the wrong way.
I’m free.
I don’t live in fear.
I don’t jump at loud sounds.
…Well. Usually.
The door swings open again. Sunlight pours in like a warning flare, blinding me for a second.
And then I see him.
My pulse trips before my mind can catch up.
Storm-gray eyes lock on mine. Steady and assessing.
It’s like all of the oxygen has been sucked from the room.
Tattoos crawl up his throat into a neatly trimmed beard and extend down both of his muscular arms. Ink winding over his hands until I can’t tell where skin ends and art begins.
He’s sin wrapped in denim, and every nerve in my body votes yes.
But there’s something else, something too sharp in the way his gaze lingers. Recognition. Or danger. Maybe both.
The door closes behind him. His stride is steady, purposeful, as he closes the distance between us.
I take him in fully. Tousled black hair falls just enough to make you think he doesn’t care, though I’d bet money he does. The glint of a nose ring catches the light; one tiny, reckless detail that makes him look like he plays by his own rules.
I grip the bar so I don't stumble over my ovaries. “What c-can I get you?” I stammer and mentally slap myself.
Jesus, Lane.
His mouth tilts into a knowing smirk. Oh yeah, this man knows the effect he has on women. And I am not immune.
“Whiskey. Top shelf.” His voice is low and smooth. Command wrapped in velvet.
God help me.
I pour the drink, trying to act like a functional human, not a puddle of hormones. He’s just a man. A beautiful man. But still, just a man.
I slide the glass across the bar and he takes it without looking away, the weight of the stare pinning me in place.
The longer he looks, the more certain I am that he's trying to place me. My pulse spikes again, beating too fast, too hard.
You’re just being paranoid because of the unwelcome flashbacks. Nobody would look for Ceciley here.
I force a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
I retreat down the bar, needing distance. Space from his scent; leather, mountain air, and something crisp that doesn’t belong in a place that reeks of cigarettes and spilled beer.
“Who’s that?” Hank asks, nodding toward the stranger at the end of the bar.
“Didn’t get a name.” I shrug, sneaking a peek. “Didn’t seem chatty.”
“Looks like bad news.” Hank gives him a sidelong glance.
“You think anyone with tattoos is bad news.”
“Everyone but you, darling.” He grins, but his gaze stays wary.
A few minutes later, the door squeaks again. I glance up and the stranger’s eyes catch mine, brief and searing like lightning. Then he’s gone, the door shutting behind him, leaving his empty glass and a few bills on the bar.
A chill runs down my spine.
It’s just memories of the past messing with you. You’re safe, Lane. You’re safe.