Chapter 29 Lance
Lance
The Rosebrook Rag dropped at six a.m.
By seven, my phone had forty-three notifications in a group chat I never asked to be in.
Calloway Kings (and Queen)
JULIETTE:
LANCE. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.
ALEX:
ah the tale of tragic love… Never thought I’d see it with you but you know what? Good for you
ME:
Everyone knows the Rag is bullshit. Why are you guys even paying attention to it?
PAXTON:
It’s not always bullshit. Sometimes I feed our source things.
JULIETTE:
Pax, just because it’s your bullshit doesn’t mean it’s not still bullshit.
ALEX:
I can’t believe we finally got Lance to text back.
I scroll back up to the screenshot Juliette attached.
BenchGate: The Calloway Throwaway and Arthur Penngrove’s Girlfriend At It Again.
The photo makes my stomach drop.
It’s us on the bench. Her shoulder pressed against my arm. My hand reaching toward her hair—the leaf, I was getting a leaf—frozen in time to look like something else entirely. She’s smiling up at me, and I’m looking at her like…
Fuck.
I’m looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Because I’m starting to think she is.
I toss the phone on the counter and drag a hand down my face.
Genevieve and I talked about it this morning, briefly. Damage control, mostly: Act normal, don’t overcompensate, don’t avoid each other in ways that make it look like there’s something to hide. Because there’s not something to hide. But I’m used to tabloids following me around, and she isn’t.
She nodded through all of it with her arms crossed and her bottom lip between her teeth, and she didn’t look at me once.
My phone buzzes again.
ART:
Round Table tonight? Got something to tell you.
It’s phrased like a question, but feels like a summons. Still, I’m not passing up the opportunity to talk to him when he’s been feeling like a complete stranger ever since I brought Genevieve to my place.
The tavern smells like fryer oil and spilled beer.
Genevieve’s behind the bar pouring a draft for some guy who’s leaning too far into her space. She makes him laugh, and she throws her head back and laughs in return, and something green gusts through my middle and squeezes.
“There he is.”
Art’s voice pulls my gaze away, and he walks over to the booth, slides in and claps me on the shoulder.
He looks different.
It takes me a second to place it. Button-down, sleeves rolled, suit jacket he tosses on the booth beside him like he just came from controlling a room.
He looks exactly like his father.
And that loyalty I’ve felt since we were kids cracks, because the Art I grew up with never looked like this.
That Art wore band shirts and laughed too loud and couldn’t sit still in class.
That Art would have been behind the bar with Gin, stealing fries and making her roll her eyes.
He’d be bringing me take out and making sure I’m okay, and making me laugh with his goofy smile and sarcastic jokes.
This Art is watching me from a corner booth like a politician calculating his next move.
“Got your text.”
“Wanted to talk.” I pass him a glass of bourbon that I ordered for him, and he takes a sip, watching me over the rim. “You always show up when she’s working anyway.”
I keep my face neutral. “Because you asked me to.”
“I did.” He sets the glass down, turning it slowly. “And I appreciate it.”
There’s something in his tone that doesn’t sound like gratitude.
Benny strolls out from the back, nods at Art, and slides onto a barstool. Rosalie pours him something without asking. They settle into quiet conversation, but Benny keeps glancing our way every few seconds.
A chill crawls up my spine like a spider.
“So,” Art says. “You’ve seen the Rag.”
“Hard to miss.”
“Funny thing about cameras.” His voice is deceptively casual. “They catch all kinds of things you don’t expect.”
“It was a leaf, Art. In her hair. That’s it.”
“Sure.” He nods. “The thing is, I know you. Better than anyone. I know how you look at things you want.”
My chest tightens, guilt wrapping around me like a fist. Because he’s not wrong. The photo caught exactly what was happening, and no amount of explaining is going to erase the way I was looking at her.
“Nothing happened,” I say. And it’s not a lie. Not technically.
“I know.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because she’s mine. And you are, too. Blood brothers, right?”
I think about the Art who said those words for the first time, when the promise felt enormous, like we were writing something permanent into the universe.
It was one of the most important moments of my childhood. It bled into my adult life and was the reason I sacrificed everything to keep him safe.
And right now, he’s weaponizing it. And it’s not the first time.
“That’s what we are,” I say.
“Good. Then there’s no reason for this to become a thing.” He drains his glass. “It’s just difficult when things get back to my father.”
There’s the real concern. Not that his best friend might have feelings for his girlfriend. That his father might see the optics and disapprove.
I wonder when that happened. When Franklin’s opinion started mattering more than mine. When the kid who used to sneak out his bedroom window to meet me at the falls turned into someone who manages me over bourbon in a back booth.
But it doesn’t matter, really. It either happened slowly, or maybe all at once, and I was too busy being stuck underground from his choices to notice until it was too late.
“I found out some things in Boston,” Art says, shifting gears with the ease of someone who’s decided the previous topic is closed. “About the guy who was following Gin.”
My pulse kicks. This is what matters. “You said there was nothing.”
His eyes glance to the bar. “I didn’t want to worry her.”
“And?”
“His name is Bors. Myrddin sent him to keep tabs on her. We were right. Leo was the attorney on a case—one of their guys got picked up in Boston—and they wanted to make sure he stayed in line and got the charges dropped.”
He’s giving me a name. An actual name. After the dinner where he gave us nothing, he’s suddenly volunteering information.
Which means he wants something, or he doesn’t trust his girlfriend.
“Now that the case is handled, there’s no reason for Bors to be sniffing around,” Art continues. “Which means there’s really no reason for Gin to stay at your place anymore.”
“I thought you said it was the Feds sniffing around.”
“I said maybe.” He lifts his brows. “Turns out I was wrong.”
The base of my neck tingles.
“So, she can go back to her apartment. You can go back to your thing. And after your brother’s party, I’ll sit her down, explain everything properly, maybe even get her to move in with me.” He shrugs. “As long as my dad approves.”
He’s separating us. And the worst part is that I can’t argue with his logic without revealing why I want her to stay.
“You really think it’s safe?” I ask. “One case gets resolved and suddenly everything’s fine? These people don’t just back off, Art.”
“I said I’d handle it.”
“Art.” I lower my voice. “What’s going on with you? Since when do you have a direct line to information about Myrddin’s operations? You’re talking about this like you’re briefed daily.”
He sniffs once, then cracks a grin. “Life, you know? Crazy bitch.”
I don’t buy it. The explanation is too neat, delivered too smoothly, like a rehearsed speech.
“Art.” My heart clenches. “Don’t let them do this to you, man.”
“Don’t worry about me. Trust, remember? It’s the only thing we’ve got.”
I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing anymore.
He slides out of the booth. “I should go check on Gin. Being a good boyfriend and all.” He straightens his shirt. “Something I’ve clearly been shit at lately. You should go home. You look tired. And you’ll need your energy for the fight that’s coming up.”
I rear back, my stomach dropping to my feet.
He walks toward the bar with easy confidence, leans over the counter, and whispers something into Genevieve’s ear. She nods, but her body stays stiff even as he presses a kiss to her temple.
Art glances back at me over his shoulder and winks.
I look away.
Rosalie appears at my elbow, setting down a water I didn’t ask for. “You keep staring at her like that and the entire town will know.”
I blow out a breath and don’t try to correct her. “Thanks for the tip, Rosie.”
She looks around, then props a hand on her hip. “I know we don’t talk much. And that our entire family hates me almost as much as I hate them.”
“Your brother doesn’t hate you. And neither do I.”
“Art’s not being honest,” she says it so softly I barely hear her.
“What?” I straighten.
“Benny said he’s working for him now.”
“Art’s working for Benny?” Bullshit. He’d never willingly work for a Voltaire.
She shakes her head. “The other way around.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“It’s amazing what you hear when people you’re with don’t think you matter.”
Right on cue, Benny whistles so loud the entire bar groans, and she gives me a thin smile.
She turns to leave, and I grab her wrist. “Rosie… You okay?”
“I’m always okay, Lance.”
She disappears behind the bar, and I sit there alone, her words rolling around in my brain.
Benny’s working for Art? No way. I must have heard her wrong.
But still… I can’t shake off the gut-wrenching feeling that the Art I knew is gone. And I don’t know who replaced him, but the man sitting at the bar is someone I’m not sure I recognize anymore.
I spend the next few minutes watching Genevieve smile at Art while something dark and possessive claws at my chest.
Art returns to the booth at some point, clapping my shoulder as he passes. “She’ll stay with you until after the party. Then we’ll figure out the next step.”
“Yeah,” I manage. “Sure.”
He’s already walking away, phone in hand.
I don’t know when I lost Art. But sitting here tonight, watching him perform, I think it might have been a long time ago.
And I just didn’t want to see it.