I glance toward the door again. Still nothing.
Maybe she needs a car; the train’s unreliable anyway, with too many stops, too many people, and too many chances for something to go wrong before I even know where to start looking. I could save for one, eventually, but the thought turns sour fast. Bar ownership sounds impressive until you count the actual numbers—repairs, licenses, staff, inventory, taxes bleeding you dry before profit ever shows up.
Growing up, money was never something I thought about. Now every broken faucet and late delivery reminds me exactly what I can’t give her.
I wipe the same spot again.
1:42.
Matt starts stacking stools. “You closing soon?”
“Yeah.”
My eyes drift back to the fucking door, and I tell myself I need to learn not to worry about her every second, that she’s capable, that she chose this city too, but it doesn’t help. I blame the surgery, the piercings, the adrenaline—anything but the truth.
It’s almost two, and she’s still not here.
I exhale through my nose and start kicking people out. “Closing,” I bark. “Finish up.”
A couple groans, someone laughs, and the room empties slower than I’d like, every minute dragging. People are enjoying themselves, and for some reason that pisses me off more than anything. They’re relaxed, drinking, flirting, existing like Tar City isn’t chewing people up daily and spitting them back out different, like nothing waits under the ground, like nothing is waiting to take what’s mine.
I look at the clock again. 2:03.
And right before I decide to tear the city apart to find her, the door opens, letting in a slice of cold air before she walks in like nothing happened. Her spine is straight, her shoulders loose, every step controlled without looking controlled, like she’s still on stage even when there isn’t one.
The neon outside catches her as she steps in, bleeding red and blue across her skin as the door shuts behind her.
Her hair is twisted up messily, and my hoodie hangs fully unzipped, revealing the bruises I left behind.
My cock goes hard immediately, and suddenly I’m aware of every man still in the room looking up, staring at her legs, at the way the hoodie barely hides anything, at the skin I marked, at something that belongs to me. They either forgot whose bar this is or they’re volunteering to die in it.
A guy near the dartboard whistles. I move, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him off his stool. “Time to go.”
“Whoa—man, I’m finishing my?—”
“No,” I say evenly, steering him toward the door. “You’re not.”
The room goes quiet fast. Nobody argues when I sound like that. Chairs scrape, people suddenly remember coats, and tabs get thrown down unfinished. Someone complains, “Damn, alright,” like they just realized the vibe changed without knowing why.
I shove the door open and start funneling bodies through it, one after another. The last guy hesitates, looks past me toward her again. My grip tightens on the doorframe. “Out.”
The door slams shut and the lock clicks. This time on purpose.
I glance toward the hallway. Empty. Matt’s jacket’s gone.Good. We’re alone.
I turn back to her. “Where the hell have you been?” I snap.
Fifty-Eight
THEN | SISK
“You don’t get to jump into the tar, save me, disappear for months, show up, fuck me, and then act like we’re just going to fall asleep like none of that shit happened.”
He stares at me for a moment and then swings his legs off the bed.
For one stupid second, I think he’s coming toward me, but of course he isn’t. He grabs his jeans from the floor and pulls them on.
“You’re leaving?”
