Chapter 3
chapter three
Madelyn
My feet are killing me. I wipe down the last table, my lower back aching from hours of carrying trays and dodging drunk customers.
The bar is finally empty, the Friday night rush reduced to sticky floors and empty glasses.
I should be exhausted, I am exhausted, but there's also this weird buzz of adrenaline still humming through me. I’ve officially survived my first week working at The Rusty Nail.
I’ve gone a week and a half without seeing a single one of Vega's men.
I know better than to think I'm safe. Men like Vega don't just give up.
Still, with every day that passes, the knot in my chest loosens a little more.
Maybe I really did disappear and there's a chance I’ll make it out of this after all.
"You did good tonight," Finn says from behind the bar, restocking bottles. "Really good."
"Thanks." I carry the last tray of glasses over, setting them down carefully.
"You didn't miss a beat." Dash emerges from the back office, his gray eyes sweeping over the empty bar before landing on me. "You kept up with the rush like you've been doing this for years."
"I have."
Finn grins. "Well, you're a natural. The regulars already love you. Old Joe asked if you were single."
I laugh despite myself. "Old Joe is like seventy."
"Seventy-two," Dash corrects, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And he's got a thing for brunettes."
"Good to know." I laugh, gathering the last tray of empty glasses and carry it through the swinging door into the back. I set it beside the industrial dishwasher and start loading glasses onto the racks, slipping into the familiar rhythm of closing duties. My hands move on autopilot.
"Leave it," Finn calls from the bar. "We'll handle the rest."
I glance back over my shoulder. "I don't mind."
"Sit." Dash pulls out a barstool, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You've been on your feet for eight hours. Take a break."
I hesitate, then sink onto the stool. My feet throbbing with relief. "Okay. Just for a minute."
Finn slides a glass of water across the bar, then pours two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler for himself. "You drink whiskey, Maddie?"
The nickname catches me off guard. No one's called me Maddie in years. "Sometimes."
"Good answer." He pours another glass and sets it in front of me. "This is the good stuff. Local distillery about twenty miles north. Small batches, aged in oak barrels. Smooth."
I pick up the glass, swirling the amber liquid. "You trying to get me drunk?"
"Nah." Finn leans against the bar, his blue eyes warm with amusement. "We're celebrating."
I lift an eyebrow. "Celebrating what?"
"Your first week without dropping a single glass."
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. "That's a pretty low bar."
Finn shrugs. "You'd be surprised."
Dash's mouth twitches. "You survived Silver Lake’s finest drunks.” Dash moves around the bar, grabbing his own glass of whiskey and settles onto the stool next to mine, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him.
His gaze tracks down my body before settling back on my face. “That's worth a drink.”
I take a sip of the whiskey. It burns going down, but Finn's right, it's smooth. Warmth spreads through my chest. "This is good."
"Told you." Finn grins, clearly pleased with himself. His eyes dip to my chest but come back to my face. “So, Maddie. Where'd you learn to waitress?”
“Cincinnati,” I say automatically, then freeze. Shit. I wasn't supposed to sat that.
"Relax." Dash's voice is low, steady. "We're not interrogating you. Just making conversation."
I force myself to breathe. "Sorry. I'm just... not used to talking about myself."
"We noticed." Finn refills his glass, then tops off mine even though I've barely touched it. "But you're safe here. We're not going to bite."
"Unless you ask nicely," Dash adds, his expression serious.
I choke on my whiskey, coughing as Finn bursts out laughing. "Jesus, Dash."
"What?" Dash's expression doesn't change, but there's a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I'm just saying."
"You're going to scare her off," Finn says, still grinning.
"I'm not scared," I say, surprising myself. "Just... caught off guard."
Dash's mouth curves into something that might be a smile. "Good. Gotta keep you on your toes.”
I shake my head and smile. I don’t remember the last time I sat around talking with people, let alone laughing.
"So, Cincinnati," Finn says, steering us back to safer territory. "How long were you there?"
"All my life." I take another sip of whiskey, letting it warm my chest. "I grew up in foster care, though, so I bounced between homes."
The playfulness in Finn's expression softens. "That's rough."
"It was what it was." I shrug, keeping my tone light. "You learn to adapt. It's a useful skill in this line of work."
"It is," Dash agrees, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "You learn to read people fast when you have to."
Something in his tone makes me study him more closely. There's a weight behind his words, like he's speaking from experience.
"Yeah. Exactly."
Finn clears his throat, breaking the moment. "Dash and I grew up here. Silver Lake born and bred."
"Really?" I glance between them. "You two seem like you've known each other forever."
"Since we were kids," Finn confirms. “Middle and high school together, then the Marines. We came back after we retired.”
"Marines?" I blink. That explains the way they move, the controlled precision in everything they do.
“Twenty years active duty," Dash says. "Infantry. We got out and decided we'd had enough of taking orders."
"So you bought a bar." I can't help but smile. "That's one way to be your own boss."
"Best decision we ever made." Finn refills his glass, more relaxed now. "Well, second best. First best was convincing Dash's grumpy ass to go in on it with me."
"I'm not grumpy," Dash says.
"You're absolutely grumpy," Finn counters. "You've been grumpy since we were ten.”
"I'm selective about who I'm pleasant to."
"See? Grumpy." Finn winks at me. "Don't worry, Maddie. He grows on you."
"Like a fungus," I say without thinking.
There's a beat of silence, and then Finn throws his head back and laughs. Even Dash's mouth twitches into something that resembles a real smile.
"I like her," Finn announces, pointing at me with his glass. "She's got bite."
I take another sip of whiskey to cover my reaction. "So you two have been friends since middle school? That's... rare."
"We're not friends," Dash says.
My stomach drops. "Oh. I didn't mean to?—"
"We're brothers," Finn cuts in, his tone matter-of-fact. "Not by blood, but by choice. Dash practically lived at my house growing up."
Dash's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't contradict him. "His parents didn't mind the extra mouth to feed."
"They loved you," Finn says simply. "Still do."
There's a story there, I can tell by the way Dash's shoulders tense, by how he stares into his whiskey like it holds answers. But I don't push. God knows I have my own stories I don't want to tell.
"That's nice," I say quietly. "Having people who care like that."
Finn's expression softens. "You didn't have that."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. Not really."
"You do now," Dash says.
I look at him, startled. His gray eyes are steady, serious. "What?"
"You work for us now. That means you're part of this." He gestures vaguely at the bar, at Finn, at the space between us. "We take care of our own."
Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest. I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts. But I've learned the hard way that wanting something doesn't make it real.
"I appreciate that," I say carefully. "But you don't really know me."
"Not yet," Finn agrees. "But we will."
The certainty in his voice should scare me. Instead, it makes me feel... seen. Like maybe, just maybe, I could stop running long enough to let someone actually know me.
"So," Finn says, clearly sensing I need a subject change. "What do you do for fun, Maddie? Besides serving drinks to drunk locals?"
"I..." I trail off, realizing I don't have a good answer. "I don't know. Haven't really had time for fun lately."
Dash's hand reaches out, brushing against the back of my barstool as he leans slightly closer. I catch him staring at my profile, at the line of my neck, the curve of my shoulder, the fullness of my breasts beneath my shirt, before he forces his eyes away.
"That's depressing," Finn says bluntly. "We're fixing that."
"You don't have to."
"Too late. Already decided." He grins. "Dash and I go fishing most Sunday mornings. You should come."
"I don't fish."
"We'll teach you," Dash says. "It's not complicated. You sit in a boat, drink beer, and occasionally catch something."
"Sounds thrilling," I say dryly, but I'm smiling.
"It is," Finn insists. "Very Zen. Good for the soul."
I take another sip of whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through my limbs. The exhaustion is catching up with me now, but it's a good kind of tired. The kind that comes from honest work and easy laughter.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"That's not a no," Finn points out, looking pleased.
"Not a yes either."
"We'll wear you down eventually," Dash says, something almost playful in his tone.
I shake my head, still smiling. "You two are persistent."
"You have no idea," Finn says cheerfully.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the three of us nursing our drinks.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For tonight. For giving me a chance."
"You earned it," Dash says. "You showed up, you worked hard, you didn't complain. That's all we ask."
"And you made Old Joe's night," Finn adds with a grin. "That's worth bonus points."
I laugh, the sound catching me off guard. “I should probably head upstairs," I say, reluctant to leave. "Get some sleep."
"Yeah." Finn straightens, stretching his arms overhead. "We open at eleven tomorrow. You working?"
"If you need me."
"We need you," Dash says.
Those three words shouldn't mean as much as they do. But they settle into my chest, warm and solid, like maybe I'm not as alone as I thought.
"Okay," I say. "I'll be here."
I slide off the barstool, my legs protesting after hours of standing.
As I move, both men's eyes follow me, Finn's gaze lingering on the curve of my hips, Dash's on how the tight Rusty Anchor shirt hugs my chest. There's a charged moment where they both seem to catch themselves and look away.
Finn walks me to the door that leads upstairs, Dash a few steps behind.
"Sleep well, Maddie," Finn says.
"You too." I pause at the door, glancing back. "And thanks for the drink and the conversation."
"Anytime," Dash says, and I believe him.
I climb the stairs to my apartment, lock the door behind me, and lean against it with a smile I haven't worn in weeks. Somewhere along the way, this place has started feeling less like a hiding spot and more like a place I could call home. That should probably scare me more than it does.
bruno
The sign reads Welcome to Silver Lake - Population 13,847 as we roll past it in the black SUV. I glance at Sal in the passenger seat. He's silent as always, thick arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the tree-lined road like he's already cataloging exits and threats.
"Small town," I say, keeping my voice casual. "Perfect place to disappear."
Sal grunts. "Perfect place to get found, too. Everybody knows everybody in towns like this."
He's right. That's what makes this easier. In a city, Madelyn Graves could vanish into the crowd. But here? A new face stands out. People notice. People talk. And we're very good at making people talk.
I ease off the gas as we enter the main drag. It's exactly what I expected, quaint storefronts, a diner with checkered curtains, a hardware store, and a small grocery. The kind of place where nothing ever happens. Where a woman on the run might think she's safe.
I pull into the gas station first. It's nearly empty, just one pump occupied by a rusted pickup. The attendant inside is a kid, maybe nineteen, scrolling on his phone behind the counter. I fill the tank while Sal goes inside to pay.
When I walk in a few minutes later, Sal's already leaning against the counter, that massive frame of his making the kid look like a twig. The kid's eyes are wide.
"We're looking for someone," I say smoothly, pulling out my phone. I swipe to the photo Vega sent us, Madelyn's employee headshot from the bar, her dark hair pulled back, those big eyes staring at the camera. "Pretty girl. Might've come through here in the last week or so. Ring any bells?"
The kid squints at the screen, then shakes his head. "Nah, man. I don't think so. But I only work weekends, so…"
"Who works weekdays?" Sal asks, his voice a low rumble.
"Uh, my boss. Jerry. He's here most days."
"When's he in next?"
"Tomorrow morning at seven."
I smile, all charm. "Appreciate it." I slide a twenty across the counter. "For your trouble."
The kid takes it, still looking uneasy. We leave without another word.