5. Dean
DEAN
I’m sitting in a dive called The Patriot, waiting on Ray. The place is a wreck. Sticky floors, the stench of stale beer hanging in the air, and cracked vinyl booths that haven’t seen an update in decades. But Ray picked it, so here I am.
I check my watch. He’s twelve minutes late. I was taught that if you agree on a time, you show up at that time. Apparently, I’m the only one who still follows that rule.
The bartender makes her way back over. Same red head from earlier, wearing a top that looks like it was designed for tips, not comfort.
My scotch is still sitting in front of me, untouched, right where she left it on her last pass.
“Sure I can’t get you anything else?” she asks. She’s still using that syrupy tone, the kind that sounds more practiced than genuine.
“I’m sure,” I say, without looking up.
She lingers longer than she needs to. When I finally look up, I catch her eyeing my watch. I can see the wheels turning. Is it real? What’s he worth? I’ve seen that look more times than I care to remember. It never impressed me. These days, it just irritates.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” she says eventually.
I give her a nod, and she moves on.
The only men who think women throwing themselves at you is a compliment are the ones it’s never happened to.
Anyone with real money learns the truth early.
Attention always comes with expectations.
Sometimes it’s small. A drink. A favor. A weekend she assumes you’ll pay for.
Most of the time, their interest isn’t in you.
It’s about what you represent. The money. The access. The illusion of safety.
You stop being a person. You become a shortcut. They’re all like that, more or less. I can’t say I blame them. Money and power have gravity. Even the ones who pretend otherwise feel the pull. Most people will bend themselves into almost any shape to get closer to it. Then again…maybe not all.
Michelle pops into my head again. That woman’s like an itch I can’t reach.
She’s made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with me. So, what do I do? I show up at her open house and spin a complete lie to impress her. I’ve got no idea what I was thinking.
Still, when I picture her, something shifts in my chest. Warmth. Which is funny, because Michelle’s got all the warmth of a bank auditor. But that’s what I like. There’s no pretense with her, no practiced smile or hidden agenda. She’s honest, and that’s rare.
I don’t know what her story is. But I know she feels something. She can play it cool all she wants, but I see it. In the way her eyes hesitate. In the way her mouth almost pulls into a smile before she shuts it down. Like she’s trying to kill the reaction before it gives her away.
So I’ll try again. Something’s off, though. Maybe she’s seeing someone.
The door swings open, and two men step inside. The atmosphere shifts. Not much but enough for everyone to notice.
Levi James and Drew Blackwood. Ray’s right and left hands. God help you if you ever figure out which is which.
Levi looks like he belongs in a back alley. Hair a little too long, mustache uneven, like he trimmed them both with a pocketknife and didn’t bother with a mirror. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt stretched across a solid frame. He moves like someone who doesn’t need to prove a thing.
Drew’s the opposite. Clean-shaven, shirt crisp, slacks pressed, sharp tie. He looks like he’s here to sell you a mortgage, not break your legs. But that’s exactly what they do for Ray. Handle the messier side of things.
Why Ray sent them instead of showing up himself, I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to. But whatever the reason, I’m about to find out.
They spot me and slide into the booth. Levi sits across from me, Drew beside him. Predictably, they’re arguing.
“Ray hasn’t forgotten,” Drew says, smoothing his cuff.
“I know that. Ray doesn’t forget anything,” Levi says, glaring at him. “Especially not the St. Cloud job.”
Drew sighs like he’s already tired of the conversation. “That was not my fault.”
“You set off the alarm.”
“How was I supposed to know it was motion-triggered?” Drew says.
“I don’t know—maybe because that was your one job,” Levi replies.
I clear my throat.
They both turn to me.
Most men would start sweating under that kind of attention. I don’t. Doesn’t mean I’m comfortable, just that I know how to act. They’re not amateurs or hotheads. They follow orders. Ray says jump, they jump. He keeps them leashed, more or less. And as long as he doesn’t let go, I’m safe. I think.
“Sorry, didn’t realize we were on your clock,” Levi says, leaning in. “Here’s what’s happening: you’ve got a second chance, and no one’s sure why. So maybe don’t push your luck.”
He lets it hang for half a second.
“Now. What do you want?”
“Permit,” I say. Then I tell them about the Club Nectar and the issues I’m having. They look at each other and then to me.
"Thing is," Drew says, settling back a little. "Last time, you dragged Ray into a mess and dragged us in with him. We're not exactly the forgive-and-forget type, you know?"
“Yet, here you are,” I say.
They don’t flinch, which tells me I’m right. If this was about payback, they wouldn’t be sitting across from me, they’d be dragging me out the back door. Whatever bad blood’s still hanging in the air, Ray wants something. And whatever it is, it’s worth more than bruising me up to make a point.
So I press, carefully.
“Spare me the grudge routine. Ray has a reason for this. Let’s get to it.”
They glance at each other—half-words, small shrugs. No one wants to say it first. That can’t be good. I sit back and let them figure it out.
Finally, Levi exhales.
“Right. You remember how it went last time Ray got you a permit.”
“I remember he tried to extort—”
“That’s not a word we use,” Levi cuts in. “Ray prefers his contracts…flexible.”
“That’s not how contracts work,” I say.
Levi shrugs.
“They do with Ray. And if you want his help again, you’re gonna have to be a little flexible too.”
“Are you pitching yoga, or are we getting to the part where you tell me what he wants.”
Levi almost smiles. Almost.
“A clean signature. That’s all.”
“On what?”
“Highway Thirty-Six.”
“Ray into roadwork now?”
“It’s a bar. Off the 36.”
“And I’m supposed to buy some shithole on the edge of town, no questions asked?”
“Tell people you’re developing it. Then don’t.”
“What goes on there?”
Levi shrugs. “It’s a bar. What do you think?”
I weigh it up. Ray’s not into drugs, trafficking, any of that cartel-documentary shit. That’s noisy and dirty. He plays a cleaner game. Property. Permits. Shell companies that bleed cash in the right direction. Crime in a suit and tie. Everyone knows what he is, but no one can prove a thing.
So why does he need my name attached to some half-dead bar off the 36? I don’t know. My best guess is that money is moving where it shouldn’t.
It’s too much of a risk.
“It’s not for me,” I say, standing. “Forget it.”
“Hold up,” Levi says. I pause. He jerks his head for me to sit down. I do. Not because I think he’s going to say anything I want to hear, but because these aren’t the kind of guys you push your luck with.
“Just think for a second. It’s a place people go, yeah? People who can’t be seen in certain places, with certain people. You tracking?” Levi raises his brows.
“Jesus,” Drew cuts in. “Councilmen go there to do shady shit off the radar. Your name makes it look clean. No heat. No connection to Ray.”
Levi shoots him a look.
“Yeah, go on. Tell him everything. Maybe throw in Ray’s home address while you’re at it.”
“He’s not gonna sign shit if he doesn’t know what he’s walking into.”
“He will if he wants his permit.”
“He was halfway out the door.”
“He was bluffing.”
“You willing to bet on that?”
I rub my temples as they keep bickering.
If they’re telling the truth—which, personally, I wouldn’t bet a dime on—I can live with it.
It adds up. Cops sniff around, someone starts asking questions, and my name’s on the deed?
No one blinks. Put some mystery name on the deed and people start digging.
Start wondering who’s behind it. Who they’re fronting for.
My name buys legitimacy. A clean reputation. One I’d rather keep. But this might be a risk worth taking. Not the smartest move, maybe. But letting Club Nectar get one over on me? That sits worse.
Levi and Drew are still going at it.
“Alright,” I cut in. They turn to me again. “I’ll do it.”
“See?” Drew says. “A little honesty is all it takes.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you go try your honesty on that bartender?”
Drew frowns. “What?”
Levi nods toward the bar. The redhead is glaring at Drew, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
“Look familiar?” Levi asks.
Drew squints. “Should she?”
“You really need a spreadsheet at this point. But for time’s sake, maybe just list the women in this city you haven’t been with.”
Drew watches her.
“She doesn’t look very happy,” he says.
“After a night with you, I’m not surprised,” Levi says, deadpan.
“Fifty says I could get her again.”
“Even you’re not that smooth. You’re on.”
Drew’s already on his feet, straightening his cuffs like this is a boardroom pitch. We watch him glide to the bar. Watch as the bartender’s expression shifts. Arms uncross. Her mouth twitches into something that could almost be a smile.
Levi sighs and pulls out a wallet thick enough to break a window. Peels out a fifty and slaps it on the table.
“Can’t disarm a basic security system,” he says, mostly to himself, “but give him five seconds and a pulse, and he’s in.”
I watch Drew charm the bartender, and my thoughts drift back to Michelle. She’s brushed me off more than once, and still, I can’t seem to let it go.
I barely know her. For all I know, she could be seeing someone. She could be married. I’m not sure that would stop me.
Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know what I’m aiming for, only that I keep missing. I could ask Max about her, but the last thing I need is my little brother watching me fumble in real time.
And I can’t ask her directly. I’d be lucky to get her coffee order. Maybe that’s why she’s stuck in my head. She doesn’t want anything from me. Doesn’t need me.
My attention returns to Levi, and an idea clicks into place.
“You two do side work?” I ask.
He gives me a quick once-over. Not a yes, but not a no.
“I need someone to watch a woman. For a couple nights. Find out where she goes, who she talks to.”
Levi scoffs. “We don’t do that.”
He turns back to Drew, who’s now got the bartender giggling like she’s forgotten she hated him two minutes ago.
“Five each,” I say.
“Five’s what I tip the guy who washes my car.”
“Ten each. Two days.”
He looks at me now. Gives me a stare that could strip paint. He’s considering. Then he glances over at Drew, shrugs, and turns back.
“Fifteen each. Cash. Nights only.”
It’s a rip-off, and he knows it. Working for Ray, I know they aren’t hurting for money—he just doesn’t want to do the job. So that’s the price.
I could find someone else. I probably should. But an outsider would ask questions. Levi and Drew won’t. They’ll do the job and keep their mouths shut.
“Done,” I say.