Chapter 3
Three
NOW | JAX
Ikeep telling myself I'm on this side of town for a reason—inventory, paperwork, a shipment only I can inspect. Standard bar-owner errands, but even I’m getting tired of lying to myself.
Tar City looks rougher than usual tonight. Or maybe it’s just the fucking headache that won’t quit. The street lamps buzz louder, the trash reeks, and Lewis—the old bastard who runs the liquor depot—is riding my ass harder than usual too.
“St. Clair,” he grumbles, shoving a clipboard at me. “You can’t keep ordering like you’re running a damn nightclub. People don’t drink that much here.”
“They do,” I say flatly, flipping through the boxes myself.
“I told you I could deliver it.”
“You know I prefer checking it myself.”
He gives me that look—the kind old men reserve for stubborn morons they’ve known too long.
“You’re not fooling anyone, St. Clair.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
“And you sure as hell ain’t subtle.”
I ignore that. He’s not wrong, and we both know it.
I finish checking the last case and give the delivery guy the nod. He slams the truck door shut and Lewis winces.
“You’re supposed to tip my guy,” he gripes.
“Then stop bleeding me dry—Harper’s charges half what you do,” I say, straddling my bike and rolling into the street.
Tar City stinks like backed-up drains gagging on stale water, that chemical shit from the highway plant, and the sour reek of dumpsters overflowing with three days of wet garbage. Home sweet hell.
When I hit the corner, my hand freezes on the throttle.
It's her studio. The lights are on, the slats of her blinds bent out of shape to leave a jagged slice of the room exposed.
She leaves them like that on purpose—that's the only reason I can give myself for still standing here.
It's not stalking if she left the window open, just the lie I tell myself so I can keep watching.
Usually, he’s there. The dad. The one who brings his kid to ballet and lingers. The one who looks at her like she’s not purely teaching his kid how to blah fucking blah, damn those stupid words I can’t pronounce.
I’ve had to physically stop myself twice from putting his skull through the wall.
I almost gave him a choice: get the fuck out of my city or be ready to meet your maker.
Every instinct screams at me to storm in there and make him take his hands off what’s mine.
But I always stop at the edge. I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to let her go when all I want is to fuck her until she's so sore I have to give her time to recover, to lock her up and make sure she never looks at another man again.
I scan the street for his big black truck, a sick sense of relief washing over me when I don’t see it.
“It’s nothing serious,” she told me once.
The fuck it isn’t. She hasn’t set foot in the bar in weeks. She’s avoiding me, throwing “I hate you” and “let me move on” in my face like they’re shields.
A part of me wants to go in there, to back her against the mirror and make her say the words she’s been hiding from. She’s not teaching a class now. She’s simply moving, lost in the music, and the sight of her alone in there makes my hands clench on the handlebars.
That’s what got me all those years ago… the way her body told a whole fucking story without saying a goddamn word.
I pull into the alley’s shadow, half-hidden, half-wanting to gun the engine and announce my presence.
She bends forward into a deep stretch, one hand sliding down the back of her calf, and her leotard rides up, exposing the sharp line of her hip.
Her hair falls to one side, a dark curtain against her pale skin, and the sight hits me straight down to my dick.
Fuck. I shift in the seat, adjusting myself through my jeans.
I drag a hand down my face, telling myself to turn away, to go home, to stop this shit. But of course, I don’t.
Because the truth is, this is the closest I get to her anymore. This window. This fifty feet of distance I’ve sworn to keep. I’m trying to do the right thing, for her own good, so I act like an asshole. I push her away. And it’s fucking working. Pisses me off how good it’s working.
Hard to believe she’s still in Tar City. Even harder to believe I am too.
She bends again, and for one insane second, my hand moves toward my zipper. The impulse isn’t a thought, it’s a fucking primal need—leave my mark on this brick like a goddamn animal. Claim this alley. Mark her. Ruin her for anyone else who might even think about looking.
If I’m being honest, it’s not the first time she’s made me do this. Not the first time I’ve had to bite my knuckle in the dark to keep from groaning her name.
Every month the urge gets more specific, more demanding. Every month I sink deeper into this pathetic shit, just a feral dog chasing its own goddamn tail, getting nowhere but wanting it more.
My eyes catch the moon above her building, beyond the rooftop silhouettes and power lines—almost full. A tight pulse of dread rolls through me. I tear my eyes away from her window, grip the handlebars, and twist the throttle.
This is the last time, I tell myself, the lie tasting familiar and exhausting. The last damn time I come here to watch her, because she's right—this back and forth shit isn't working. But I already know: I'll be back.
* * *
The after-work crowd is loud enough that I should be able to drown the whispers out, but Tar City gossip works like cigarette smoke—gets in your lungs whether you want it or not.
“Did you hear?” one of the regulars murmurs over a half-empty ashbrew. “Old Detective Rosen is up and at it again.”
“Nooo,” the other groans. “Poor Maggie. Every year he slips a little more.”
“Yeah… something to do with the anniversary.”
I try not to react. I really do, but my feet slow. My ears tilt their way like they’ve got a mind of their own. I don’t know if they’re actually whispering—or if they’re whispering loud enough so I’ll hear.
People in this city love their stories. They pass them around, twist the details, add their own flavor until you can’t tell where the memory ends and the bullshit begins. Nobody cares which is which.
Opening this bar was supposed to be my hideout.
A place to get lost behind the alcohol and make enough cash to live and be left alone.
I didn’t realize it meant becoming the town’s confessional.
I hear everything—Tar Pit ghost stories, drunken confessions, more unsolicited bullshit than a market hawker on a Sunday.
But I don’t judge them. Fuck, I’ve learned to spot the tar-stained fingers and keep my mouth shut.
I pour them one without judgment. Nobody knows what makes a person go to the edge.
My permanent scowl should say it all. I do not fucking care.
But they tell me anyway. Maybe they know if there’s anyone in this city with an X across his name, it’s me.
Who better to spill their guts to than the guy nobody would believe, even if he tried to repeat it?
It’s been a long time since my name meant anything good in this town.
Everything went to shit years ago, and even if most people don’t remember how it started, they’re damn sure to add their own chapters to the history books.
Lately, some are stupid enough to ask for my help, like I’m some kind of vigilante.
They want me to teach lessons, to send messages.
Idiots. Most of them are smart enough to fear me, but the brave ones, they walk right up to the bar and ask.
I don’t know who started the rumor that I’m a good guy, but Sisk and Matt always answer for me.
“He’ll do it,” they say. I don’t want to do it.
It’s a good way to bleed off the poison, like when I put that loan shark’s head through his own car window for messing with a waitress. A little adrenaline goes a long way.
“Matt,” I call, sliding a clean glass down the polished wood. “Take over for a few?”
Matt catches it without looking up from the tap he’s cleaning. “What, you gonna go stare at the wall again? Try not to break anything this time.”
I don’t bother with a reply, just walk to the back.
I lean against the cool brick, digging a cigarette from my pocket.
I jam it between my lips but the first flick of the lighter fails.
The second sputters and dies. “Fuck me,” I grit, striking it a third, harder this time, the flame finally catching.
I take a slow drag, letting the burn settle.
My thoughts don’t settle with it. They ricochet between the way Sisk looked in her window last night and the sinking knowledge that Rourke is about to stir up the town again. The anniversary always gets him. Always gets all of us.