Chapter 8 Reva
CHAPTER EIGHT
REVA
The motel sign flickers outside my window, one neon letter gone dead, the others buzzing like they’re thinking about giving up the ghost.
It’s not clean or safe or anything remotely like I’d normally choose. It’s cheap, though, and right now, cheap matters.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring down at the contents of my knapsack spread across the faded sateen bedspread. The fabric is worn thin in places, patterned with something that was probably floral once and now just looks tired.
This is it. Everything I have. Everything I brought with me when I decided to walk into Noir like I had a plan.
My plan has been blown to shit, and that pisses me off all over again.
Ever’s voice echoes in my head—flat, dismissive, final. Not hiring.
Shiloh’s face follows right behind it, all easy charm and nothing underneath it that resembles salvation.
Like the night before hadn’t happened. Like I didn’t matter.
“Fuck him,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
Fuck both of them.
They don’t matter. They don’t. They’re not why I’m here.
I force my attention back down to the bed.
A stack of letters sits near my knee, bound together with a rubber band like the ones wrapped around my wrist, only thicker. The paper is soft at the edges from being handled too many times.
Ash.
He said he knew my father. He’s been writing me for years. I press my thumb against the top letter, then let it go.
Next to it—my DCFS paperwork.
I don’t know why I still carry it. I’ve been out of the system for years, pulled out by Cal before it had the chance to swallow me whole.
But I remember the day he handed it to me like it just happened.
“This means you have a home with me now,” he’d said. “I’m not your dad. But I’ll protect you.”
His face had gone hard when he said it. It wasn’t performative. Not comforting. Just a promise. “No one’ll ever hurt you again.”
That was when I knew he understood what the system had already done. The papers have followed me ever since. Proof. A reminder. An anchor of sorts.
I glance over the rest.
Three T-shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Socks. Underwear.
One skater skirt I haven’t worn since high school but couldn’t leave behind.
My vibrator, because men fucking suck.
My Kindle, because a girl with a vibrator needs fairy porn.
A journal I barely write in. It’s filled with scribbles and verse and names and drawings and all manner of things that wouldn’t make a lot of sense to anyone other than me.
All of it laid out in front of me like some sad inventory of a life that’s supposed to mean something. I huff out a breath.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Real intimidating.”
Definitely nothing here screams badass contract-killer-hiring bitch. Which is a problem, because that’s exactly what I need to be.
It’s my third day in New Orleans, my third day waking up in this lovely establishment and then leaving to show up uninvited at Noir.
I’m starting to feel like a stalker. I’m not sure I can even honestly claim to be looking for a job anymore.
This has turned into less of a plan and more of a compulsion.
Like if I stop showing up, whatever thin thread I’ve got to my past will snap, and I’ll be right back where I started—empty-handed and furious.
I shove everything back into my bag with more force than necessary and stand. Sitting here isn’t getting me anywhere.
Neither is waiting.
If Noir is the only thread I’ve got, then I’m not letting it snap because some asshole bartender told me no. I grab my keys and head out.
I don’t go straight there. Noir doesn’t open for another hour or so. Instead, I park a few blocks away and walk, pretending I’m just a tourist.
If I close my eyes, I can almost believe it. Almost. It never takes long for memory to flood back, though.
The city hums around me, alive in a way that feels almost offensive. Music spills out of open doorways, laughter cuts through the heat, and somewhere down the street a trumpet wails.
I don’t belong in this version of New Orleans, the one people come here for. I’m not here to be charmed.
I find a small café tucked between two louder storefronts and slip inside. It smells like sugar and coffee and something fried. I order beignets and coffee and take a seat by the window. The powdered sugar coats my fingers when I pick one up, and I take a bite, barely tasting it.
This is what normal looks like.
This is what I don’t get to have.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture—coffee, plate, sunlight catching the edge of the table—and send it to Cal before I can think too hard about it.
Reva
See. I’m doing normal girl, touristy stuff.
The response comes almost immediately.
Cal
I am not amused. You need to get your ass home. What the hell were you thinking, quitting your job out of the blue like that? You’re going to lose your apartment.
My jaw tightens.
Not are you safe. Not are you okay.
Like I didn’t leave for a reason. I purse my lips, then tap out a response.
Reva
Sublet it for me.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Cal
Reva.
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me.
Reva
Or break the lease. Do what you have to do. I’m not coming back yet.
My phone rings, and I stare at it for a second.
I let it ring. Let it keep ringing. Then I silence it.
I can’t explain this to him. He wouldn’t understand. Or worse—he would, and he’d try to stop me anyway. I drain the rest of my coffee in one swallow, ignoring the way it burns on the way down, and stand.
Reva
Gotta go.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, then shove my phone back in my pocket and head out.
My morning walk wasted just enough time for Noir to be opening. From down the sidewalk, I catch a glimpse of Shiloh setting a placard out. He squints against the sun, hair bright, sees me coming, and shakes his head before disappearing inside.
I walk faster, my fingers moving to pop the rubber bands on my opposite wrist. If they think I’m going to walk away because one man told me no, they don’t know me at all.
I didn’t come this far to get turned away. I push through the door, willing my anger into discipline.
Shiloh hasn’t been able to help me, not without going out of his way to demand an exception, which apparently is something he doesn’t do often if ever.
Our night together clearly didn’t mean enough for him to go out of his way for me, then—an irritating little factoid I tuck away for later.
Either that, or he’s a little pissed that I didn’t take him up on his offer of calling him.
File it. Box it. Lock away the key.
I’m not one hundred percent certain of the hierarchy here, but Noir feels like something of a democracy, where Ever is the king supreme on the premises and Shiloh is a close second.
And yet…Ever doesn’t feel like ‘the boss.’ I’m not sure why I have that instinct, but the gut feeling lingers. Ever holds the room, but he doesn’t wear the room. He’s guarding it for someone else.
The one certainty I’ve gleaned from hanging around is that Shiloh and Ever are a unit. Unbreakable. They remind me, in a way, of how Delia and I were before she died. There’s a kind of twinship in the way they communicate without words, using an arched eyebrow or a pointed look.
“Good morning, lovely people,” I sing out as I enter and plop down on a barstool, trying a different tack. Ever seems to be perpetually grumpy; maybe he needs someone to put him in a good mood?
Ever narrows his eyes at me over a coffee mug. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! I would never.”
Shiloh snorts.
So far, Ever isn’t impressed or moved by my persistence.
Yesterday, he sent me out into the street without a word. He lifted his hand and pointed a finger at the door, like he was chastising a guilty dog with muddy paws. Shiloh just looked at him and shook his head.
Angry tears smarted, and I turned on my heel and stomped away before they saw them fall.
Today I’m more prepared. My three rubber bands are in place, and a black hair tie binds my chestnut locks to the top of my head in a neat bun. I’ve got a classic black tank top underneath my hoodie, and I spent an hour last night cleaning off my boots.
Everything about me says This Girl Means Business.
“Look, you might as well just give me a job. I’m just going to keep coming back until you see what a great hire I’ll be.
It’s actually the same thing I did to get to my position under Captain Lange in Chicago.
He didn’t want to hire me, either—didn’t believe a scrawny nineteen-year-old had what it took to be a Chicago EMT. ”
“Is that so?” Shiloh asks.
“Yes. It took me exactly six days to prove him wrong.”
“So you were…are? An EMT?” Ever’s glance is confused.
“Yes.”
“Why on earth do you want to work in a bar, then?”
I swallow. I don’t have a good answer for that, and realize too late that I probably should have kept my mouth shut. “I needed a change,” I finally say. “I’m sure I’ll go back to it one day, but there are reasons I couldn’t stay on the squad.”
Ever’s chin tips up. “Ah. Well, I’m not sure working a bar is the best—”
He’s interrupted by the inward swing of the door and a sweaty, loud rush of tourists. Half of them descend upon the bar, while the other half pile in among the tables, fanning themselves and collapsing into chairs as though they’ve just run a marathon.
“Shit,” Shiloh says. “Where’s Sonny?”
“In the back. What about Justine?”
“Not due until dinner. I’ll call her in.” Shiloh begins rounding the bar toward the back.
I wave a hand. “Um, hello. Just your handy neighborhood applicant over here…no?” Ever ignores me. “Okay, then.”
I sit quietly and watch, taking stock. Even the air is louder. Not music-louder—people-louder. Chairs scraping. A sharp burst of laughter echoes from the back. The whole room feels like it’s starting to surge before the wave hits.
On the various TV screens, some football game plays, and a roar goes up from a group of guys gathered around one of them.