Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The pool hall is dead. Two guys shoot eight-ball at the far table, their low voices and the crack of pool balls the only sounds breaking the silence. I wipe down the bar for the third time, restless.
Jenna saunters in, her hair up in its usual messy bun, and hops onto a barstool. She’s my bestie, been my confidante through thick and thin, one of the few who knows the real me.
She slides onto a stool, her messy bun tipping to one side. "You look like hell."
"Thanks. You always know what to say."
She grins. "Seriously though, you okay? Word on the street is you had one hell of a day yesterday.” She tilts her head, concern lacing her words.
“Yeah, you could say that.” I lean forward, elbows on the bar, and the floodgates open. The robbery, the yelling, the fear—it all comes spilling out.
"There was this guy, though." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Julian. He was so calm, so sweet. Tall, dark eyes, beautiful smile. He kept this little girl from losing it completely, handed her gummy bears like we were at a birthday party instead of a hostage situation."
Jenna's eyebrows lift. "Okay..."
"He held my hand when they made us move. Drove me home after." I pause, biting my lip. "I haven't stopped thinking about him."
“Julian, huh?” Jenna raises an eyebrow. “Tall, dark, handsome stranger to the rescue? That's a normal reaction, I think,” she says gently. "Trauma does weird things. You went through something intense together. Your brain's just processing it."
“Something like that.”
“You’re not a superhero kind of gal, but I guess we all need a hero once in a while,” Jenna smirks, drawing circles on the bar with her fingers.
“Imagine it,” I chuckle, “Last night, I dreamt those robbers kidnapped me, and he turned up on this flashy motorcycle, Sons of Anarchy style, to rescue me.”
Jenna laughs, the sound infectious. “You and that show! Always knew Jax Teller would rub off on you.”
The laughter fades, replaced by a contemplative hum. “But seriously, it’s normal to feel stuff after something traumatic. Especially when some handsome guy swoops in. Doesn’t mean you’re in love or something.”
A sigh escapes me. “I know. It’s just...Daniel. He went a little nuts last night. Worried about the cards, the phone, everything.” I try to convey how tightly he holds onto everything, how everything has to be perfect.
Jenna's eyes soften. “It’s his way of coping, I guess. Some folks gotta control things to stay sane.”
I exhale. "He went completely crazy. You know how he gets—high strung doesn't even cover it. He wanted to call the bank immediately, cancel everything. Kept asking if I was hurt, if they'd threatened me."
"Sounds about right."
"But honestly?" I set the glass down. "I'm grateful. He's handling all the bank stuff, helping me replace my cards and ID. I don't have to deal with any of it."
Jenna studies me, her expression thoughtful. "That's good."
"Yeah." I nod, trying to convince myself. "It is."
The pool balls crack again. I watch the guys play, my mind drifting back to Julian's hand wrapped around mine, his steady presence beside me on that floor.
“Well, look at you. Two knights in shining armor,” she says, her smile teasing.
I laugh, though inside, my heart remains conflicted—trapped somewhere between safety and the thrill of the unknown.
Daniel and I sit opposite each other in a small, dimly lit Thai restaurant.
It’s painted in deep reds and golds, the smell of ginger and lemongrass hanging in the air.
Daniel enjoys the quiet—claims it helps him think.
Me, I'm craving the zing of the cashew orange chicken as it zips across my tongue, a fiery contrast to my more composed company.
“I called the bank,” Daniel’s voice cuts through the din as he pokes at his ginger chicken. His eyes bore into mine, intense and expectant. “Your appointment is tomorrow.”
I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate all your help.”
His fork meets his plate with a clatter. “We’ll sort through the rest of your stuff tonight. Cancel anything else necessary.”
The restaurant is Daniel's kind of place—dim lighting, bamboo partitions, the hush of people who know how to eat quietly. He cuts into his ginger chicken with precision, each movement deliberate.
"I transferred money into your account this morning," he says between bites. "Should cover everything until your new cards arrive."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." His blue eyes fix on mine, serious as always. "You've been through enough."
I twirl noodles around my fork, the cashew orange chicken hitting that perfect sweet-spicy note. "I appreciate it. Really."
The rhythm of our conversation is predictably methodical, but out of the corner of my eye, something shatters the quiet.
A man two tables down babbles loudly on his phone, his animated features telling half the story. His empty plate sits abandoned, a relic of an overstayed welcome. I notice Daniel’s shoulders stiffen as the voice continues to rise.
"Yeah, no, I told them the deal was off the table. They're idiots if they think—" the man is saying a little loudly.
Daniel's jaw tightens. I watch the muscle jump beneath his beard.
The guy's at a corner table, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly at nothing. His empty plate sits pushed aside, but he shows no signs of leaving. "Exactly! So I said, listen buddy, you want my business or not?"
Daniel sets down his fork. The careful, silent press against cloth seems like a warning.
"Maybe he'll finish soon," I offer quietly.
"Right?” the man goes on. “That's what I'm saying! These people don't get it—"
Daniel stands. Smooth. Controlled. He crosses to the man's table in two strides.
"Excuse me." Daniel's voice carries that polite edge I've learned to recognize. "Could you keep it down?"
The guy glances up, waves a dismissive hand, keeps talking. "Yeah, hold on a sec. Some guy's—no, it's nothing."
Daniel returns to our table. Picks up his fork. But his knuckles are white around it.
"So anyway, the robbery," I start, desperate to redirect. "The police said they'd call if—"
"I KNOW, RIGHT?" The man's laugh booms across the restaurant.
Daniel's chair scrapes back.
This time he doesn't ask.
“Listen,” Daniel leans over him, speaking in low, measured tones. “I asked you nicely.” Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he snatches the mobile from the man's hand.
The guy's mouth drops open. "What the—"
Daniel turns and walks to the aquarium. Drops the phone in.
It hits the water with a splash. Goldfish scatter.
"What the fuck!" The man jumps up.
Daniel's on him in a heartbeat, fist wrapped in his collar, yanking him close. "I asked politely."
The waitress backs toward the kitchen, eyes wide.
My heart hammers. I've seen Daniel angry, but this—
"You can't just—" the man sputters.
"I can." Daniel's voice drops to something deadly quiet. He releases the collar, pulls a fifty from his wallet, tosses it on the table. "Get the fuck out."
The man grabs his briefcase and practically runs.
Daniel smooths his shirt. Returns to our table. Sits.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he says, picking up his fork. “Rude people really annoy the fuck out of me.”
I nod, murmuring acknowledgment as I push the remaining food around my plate, unsettled. I stare at him, fork frozen halfway to my mouth.
"He was being rude," Daniel continues, forking a piece of chicken. "Some people need to learn manners."
The BMW glides through the streets, smooth and silent as a predator. Daniel's hands rest at ten and two on the steering wheel, perfectly positioned. Classical music hums from the speakers—something baroque and precise.
I stare out the window, watching my town slide past in a blur of streetlights.
I remember the first time I really saw him. Not just the landlord who collected rent checks, but saw him. He'd been coming out of his unit in sleek trousers and a fitted grey shirt, hair damp from a shower. Those blue eyes had locked onto mine, and my stomach had done this ridiculous flip.
Silver fox. That's what Jenna called him when I'd shown her a photo.
The greying temples, the sharp jaw, the way he dressed like he'd stepped out of a catalogue.
Six feet of controlled sophistication. The kind of man who had his life sorted—retirement accounts, property portfolios, meal prep on Sundays.
I'd catch glimpses of him in the hallway. In the lobby. Each sighting felt like winning some small lottery.
Then came the packing knife. My palm split open like a fault line, and what should've been a simple cut turned angry and infected. The hospital stay was short, but the bills weren't. My shitty bar insurance covered almost nothing.
I finally worked up the nerve to tell the beautiful landlord I'd be late on rent. I'd rehearsed the conversation a dozen times. Practiced my apology in the mirror.
He'd listened. Really listened. Then told me not to worry about it.
Three days later, he asked me to dinner.
The whole thing felt surreal—like I was playing a part in someone else's story. But he was gorgeous. Successful. Interested. And I owed him rent money. The math wasn't complicated.
Six weeks in, he asked me to move into his place. His apartment was triple the size of mine, all clean lines and expensive furniture.
No more rent. More money for thrifting, for nights out with Jenna, for those ridiculous boots I'd been eyeing.
I thought I'd won the lottery.
The BMW turns onto his street, and I watch his profile in the dashboard glow. Strong jaw. Serious eyes.
Three months ago, I would've called myself lucky.
Now I'm watching my boyfriend throw phones into aquariums, and I can't shake the feeling I've traded one kind of debt for another.
That I've made a deal with the devil.