Twenty-Five #3
He squeezes Gabriel’s shoulder. “Gabriel here understands that. Don’t you?”
Gabriel’s eyes stay on Westfield’s for a beat too long. His mouth forms a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere real. “I’m learning.”
Westfield holds him there with his stare, then pivots like the moment never happens.
“Please.” Westfield’s grin widens, gesturing toward a passing server with a tray of champagne flutes. “Help yourself. We spared no expense.”
I lift a glass off the tray because it gives my hands something to do and my face something to hide behind. My tongue presses against the back of my teeth. No expense spared, except for the lives you step on.
Then something moves in my peripheral vision, and my body knows before my brain does. The champagne flute goes cold in my grip.
A man crossing the far side of the room, moving away from the bar. Older than I remember. Heavier. His sandy hair is now ash-white at the temples, but the cut of the suit is the same. The careful, deliberate way he moves through a room is the same.
The man who slid a manila envelope across a hotel meeting room table and told me it was the generous thing to do. The man who watched me sign my own silence with my hand shaking so badly the pen nearly slipped.
Gerald Hicks.
He’s crossing toward Westfield. Toward Gabriel. Toward me.
I breathe in through my nose, slow and even, the way I learned to do behind a bar when the room tilts sideways and the show must go on.
He doesn’t know your face. You had blonde hair. You were seventeen years old.
Gerald shakes Westfield’s free hand without sparing me a second glance. His eyes skim past me entirely. Then he looks at Gabriel—one short nod like he’s greeting a useful asset—and turns back to Westfield like I’m furniture.
I’m nobody to him. I was nobody to him then, too. That was the whole point. He bought that guarantee. Paid good money for it.
The acid sits at the back of my throat.
“The investors from Seattle are dying to meet the face of the franchise,” Westfield says, and steers Gabriel half a step away without waiting for an answer.
Gabriel’s eyes come back to me. Quick, steady. A check-in.
I hold his gaze and give him one nod. Go.
He turns back. His smile returns like he pulls it on over his skin. Gerald falls into step beside Westfield, already talking, already comfortable, utterly at home in the machine he helped build.
I watch until they close ranks.
Then I breathe.
I drift toward the bar because it’s where I can see everything without looking obvious. I shrug my coat off my shoulders as I go. If I’m going to be in this room, I’m not hiding inside a coat.
Delilah drifts over under the cover of refilling her glass. Her face stays pleasant. Her voice drops to nothing.
“System’s ready. Loaded under ‘Promo B.’” A pause. “Also, your favorite human rash is holding court at two o’clock. Second drink, at least.”
I don’t have to look to know she means Braxton. But I look anyway.
Tight suit. Flushed face. Ice rattling in his rocks glass as he gestures at a cluster of influencers who are performing attention rather than paying it. His sleeve rides up far enough to flash a watch that costs more than my car.
“That pace and he’ll get sloppy by midnight,” I murmur.
“Mhm,” Delilah says, her mouth curving. She bumps my hip with hers, whispering quietly, “Bar face.” Then she steps away, winking at me before returning to the Wolves.
I readjust my features. Eyes neutral. Mouth easy. The same face I wear when the till’s short and the room’s still full.
My eyes sweep again, tracking the room like I’m reading a play.
Holt stays near the bar. O’Neill keeps talking with sponsors. Thompson’s hand rests lightly at Delilah’s waist.
And Gabriel—pinned between two investors—keeps his jaw tight while he smiles. He nods at the right times, gesturing with a glass he doesn’t drink from.
He’s good at this.
His eyes lift and find me across the room.
For a beat, everything else dulls. The bass turns distant. The chatter turns into a wash of sound.
He doesn’t smile.
Neither do I.
He quirks a brow. A question sits there without words.
Still in?
I lift my glass a fraction in a mock toast.
Scorched earth.
His throat moves like he swallows something hard. Then he turns back to the investors and keeps playing his part.
The lights dim.
The DJ fades the music down until it becomes a low hum.
A soft ripple runs through the crowd as people pivot toward the stage at the front of the room. Phones rise like a field of glowing insects.
Westfield steps up, champagne glass in one hand, mic in the other. He smiles like he’s about to hand out scholarships instead of shutting down businesses.
“Good evening, Whistler—” His voice rolls over the room, smooth and certain—the voice of a man who has never once wondered if the ground would hold.
I let it wash past me.
Seven years ago, I signed my name on a line and bought my father a peaceful death and a bar that stayed open. I told myself it was survival. I told myself that it was enough.
Tonight I find out what comes after enough.
My glass is steady in my hand.
Let him talk.