9. Sage
NINE
SAGE
“What can I get you?”
I’m ninety minutes into my shift and Gull’s is packed—every booth full, every stool occupied, the kitchen window stacking plates faster than I can carry them.
My feet have moved past pain into numb, throbbing acceptance.
I move through it all on autopilot, smiling when I’m supposed to smile, refilling when I’m supposed to refill, saying coming right up and can I get you anything else while my brain is somewhere else entirely.
My bedroom.
I went back home to get my uniform after my meeting with Holden. He’d walked me back to my building, grinning like it was all a date, then vanished before I could ask whether he’d be watching from the street. Amy and Tyler had already left for the day.
And sitting on the end of my bed was Amy’s pink clutch.
They were in my room.
I’d stood frozen for a full minute before moving, listening for any other sign—a creak, a cough. Nothing.
Everything was there when I dumped the clutch out: keys, lip gloss, phone. My screen was cracked, but there was no blood. No sand. No sign at all my things were at a murder scene.
My phone was even fully charged.
My gut twisted at the idea of someone digging through my photos, my messages. I thumbed open the text exchange with Amy.
Amy:
you home?? text me when you’re in
Sage???
And under it, a reply. Sent at 12:58 a.m.
A thumbs up sent by a masked man.
And my best friend just accepted it. One emoji. That was all it took to convince her I was safe.
I hated how much access these guys already had to me. It spun me up all day, thinking of every possible way to keep them out of my life, until the complete futility of it crashed down and left me hollow.
“Miss?” The man at the counter blinks at my delay. I apologize, then nod through his repeated order and turn away mid-sentence even though I heard maybe half of it. I’ll probably have to comp his sides and forgo my tip. His comfort is the least of my worries.
Because the clutch wasn’t the only thing I found in my room.
On my dresser, laid out like an offering, was a coral pink dress—identical to Amy’s, down to the small ruffle at the hem. Next to it, a shoebox containing sandals that looked exactly like the ones I’d lost under the jetty.
They’d left them resting there like a threat, a promise that they could walk right into my fucking sanctuary anytime they wanted.
Lucky me, they’d also left a note. Handwritten on the back of an old receipt, it said simply,
You’re welcome :)
I’d stared at it stupidly, not sure if the chill running up my spine was fear or awe. Therapy had trained me to see violence as a thing that happened to me. These men, these sharks circling my life, had flipped that inside out. Now I’m part of the violence, not just a survivor.
And even scarier than that? How comforted I am by the thought.
Another customer calls me over. I take the order with a smile I don’t feel.
By the time I drop the ticket, I have three new tables and two more coffee refills in queue. I want to be connected to this normality. To be okay.
But then I’m back in my bedroom, staring at the clutch, the dress, my stomach twisting.
I try to pour two Cokes, but the ice clinks too loud against the glass. My hands aren’t steady. I nearly overfill one, splashing the rim, and silently curse as I mop it up with a rag.
Get it together, Sage. You need to be normal. Normal is the only thing that can keep you safe right now.
I bring the sodas to the counter. The customer is maybe forty, thinning hair, nervous energy. He reaches for his Coke and our hands brush. I jump, flinch, let go. The glass slides but he steadies it.
“Sorry,” I manage.
“Rough day?”
I want to laugh. Rough day? I killed a man last night and this morning a different man left me a note calling me cute for doing so. Rough doesn’t begin to cover it.
“You have no idea.”
I wipe down the counter, then make a circuit of the diner, counting tips, scanning faces, cataloging risk—regulars, tourists, an elderly couple puzzling over the crossword together. No one suspicious.
I shiver, rubbing my hands over my arms, wishing I still had the jacket.
Is it ridiculous that I’m upset they took the fucking jacket? It’s not like I was going to wear it in public. That would be psychotic.
But it made me feel safe. He made me feel safe.
Even though I don’t even know his name—the one who wrapped me in it—he seemed kind.
Let’s see. I know K, Holden, and Holden mentioned a Milo. Who were the others? Is K for Killian, Kyle, Kurt? Killer?
Oh god, what if it stands for Killer?
A darker part of me enters the mental conversation.
Don’t lie. You’d be open to Mr. K and Holden slaying your pussy.
At the same time.
I shake my head, trying to flick the intrusive thoughts away. It’s fucking acrobatic how my mind can spiral from existential dread to semi-erotic longing to work panic in fifteen seconds flat.
Holden was . . .
. . . a loaded gun.
. . . a smoking hot, loaded gun.
I clench my jaw, hating that I noticed his perfect smile, the way my brain goes straight to those blue eyes and the way he called me wildcat and good girl and how I fucking loved every bit of it.
Jesus.
I’m so fucked up.
“Order up!”
I grab the plates from the window—burger and fries, along with a grilled cheese for booth six—and deliver them with a smile I’ve been wearing like a Halloween mask.
The lunch rush thins out around two-thirty. I bus tables, wipe down menus, roll silverware into napkins. Mindless work. The kind that lets your hands move while your brain spirals.
There’s a guy at the counter I haven’t gotten to yet. He’s been nursing a menu for the last ten minutes, waiting patiently while I cash people out.
He’s got brown hair that’s a little shaggy, and a nice, friendly face. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans, a backpack slumped against the stool next to him. He looks up when I approach with the coffee pot.
“Sorry for the wait.” I flip over his mug. “It’s been crazy in here.”
“No worries.” He smiles. “I’m not in a rush.”
Grateful, I start to pour his coffee, watching the dark stream fill the white ceramic. I glance up at the door when the bell jingles, and that’s when I see him.
Across the street. On the bench by the bus stop.
Autumn eyes.
I’d know him anywhere, even without the mask and dark clothes, even in daylight, even through a plate-glass window smudged with salt spray and handprints.
I’ll never forget how he cleaned blood from my skin.
He’s sitting there, watching the diner.
Watching me.
“Whoa—hey! That’s good!”
I jerk too late. Coffee floods the saucer and splashes over his fingers before dripping onto the counter in a spreading brown pool.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I right the pot and grab a cloth, mopping frantically at the mess. “I’m so sorry, I just—I got distracted, I—”
“It’s fine, really.” The customer laughs, grabbing napkins from the dispenser to help. “Happens to the best of us. No harm done.”
I look up. Out the window, back to the bench.
It’s empty.
He’s gone. Did I imagine him?
“You okay?”
The guy at the counter is looking at me with concern, napkins wadded in his hand, head tilted slightly. Up close, his eyes are a warm hazel, and there’s an earnestness in his expression that makes my chest ache for reasons I can’t name.
“Yeah.” I force the word out, force the smile back on my lips. “Yeah, sorry. Long day. Long . . . life, actually.”
“I get that.” He tosses the wet napkins in the bus bin propped behind the counter. “I just moved here, so everything’s been kind of a blur. New town, new apartment, new coffee spots to memorize.” He gestures at the diner. “This one seems promising.”
“It’s not bad.” I pour him a fresh cup, carefully this time, eyes on the mug and not the window. “The pie is great. Frank—one of our regulars—has been coming here for thirty years for his daily slice.”
“Thirty years? That’s a hell of an endorsement.” He wraps his hands around the mug and takes a sip. “I’m Jamie, by the way.”
“Sage.”
“Nice to meet you, Sage.” He says it like he means it. “And hey—whatever’s going on with your day—life? It’ll get better. It always does.”
God, how I want to believe him. I want to believe anything that would make the world less dangerous, less weird, less fucked.
For a pathetic, traitorous moment, I imagine letting those guys in masks clean up after me, protect me, turn bad things into a deleted file. A ghost in the system. Just . . . gone.
But I know better. There’s no such thing as gone, not after a night like that. I lean against the counter and force my hands to unclench.
“Thanks. I hope so.”
He smiles again and goes back to his coffee. I move down the counter checking on other customers, my eyes straying to the window, searching for that flash of gold, the hard jaw, the eyes that saw every inch of me in the dark. That didn’t look away from the mess I’d made.
When my break hits, Rosa waves me off. “Go, I’ve got your tables.
” I step out back and light a cigarette I bummed from the cook.
I don’t smoke. It burns my tongue and the back of my throat.
I wrap an arm around my middle and try not to cry.
Crying is weakness and I’m really, really done being the weakest link.
I flick the cigarette butt into the alley bin, watching it arc and die in a hiss of sparks. Then I see him—he’s just a shape at first, tall and still against the graffiti-scarred dumpster, arms folded.
My throat closes. I know that silhouette. I’d know it blindfolded, underwater, in a burning room.
I step off the back stoop, heart already in my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just tilts his head, the shadow slipping off his face enough to show the cut of his jaw, the flat line of his mouth. It’s the giant guy from last night. The one whose knife I stole.
Mr. K.
“You’re stalking me now, too?”
He steps closer, just enough that the light hits his face. Tanned skin. A deep crease between his eyebrows. A nose that’s taken at least one punch. He’s not classically handsome, but there’s something about the way his presence fills the alley that makes the air feel smaller.
I cross my arms, matching his stance, and angle my chin up. “Do you want something? Or is intimidating girls in alleys your daytime hobby?”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t smile, but he continues to watch me calmly. “I’m here to check on you.”
Holy shit.
That voice is something else. So deep and sexy that it reverberates through my body, pooling low in my belly and tightening my nipples.
I can’t even look him in the eyes. I fold, instantly, the bravado draining out of me like a popped balloon. “You checking if I’m going to crack?”
He cocks his head, like he’s not sure if I’m making a joke or confessing to being a total fucking mess. “You did what you had to do.”
The words hit me square in the chest—heavy and unexpected. I bark a stupid, sharp laugh. “What I had to? No. I’m pretty sure that was a complete breakdown of all morals.”
He watches me, those weirdly gentle eyes carving right through my soul. “You think he didn’t deserve it?”
I mean to scoff, but it comes out as a breathless sigh. “I . . . No. He did.”
“So the problem is . . .?”
“You guys were already there. Had the rope. The . . . plan. All I did was lose my shit. Fuck up your neat little operation.”
A faint smile. Or maybe it’s a muscle twitch. “You didn’t fuck up anything.”
“Bullshit.”
“Man got what he deserved.”
I want to argue. I want to be mad at him, or at least scared, but I’m just tired. “So what? You guys are dealing out vigilante justice? You watch, wait, and swoop in like a bunch of superheroes? Except instead of capes, it’s skull masks and combat boots?”
“Superheroes don’t do enough. They hand the scum to judges who hand them back.”
I open my mouth but he steps closer.
“We don’t let them go. We put them where they belong. Six feet under.”
And for some reason, that hits. I have to look away, stare at the oil slick rainbow in the gutter. “You’re insane.”
He shrugs. “What time do you get off work?”
“What?”
He says it again, slower. “What time do you get off?”
I look at him. The bland brick back wall of the diner. The moss-green dumpster. The two flies suiciding into a bug zapper hanging near the back door.
I blink.
“Eight.” I don’t know why I tell him. Maybe because he already knows where I live. Maybe because pretending I have privacy feels stupid now.
He nods. “I’ll walk you home.”