Ms. Rowan shushes us so sharply a book slides off her own desk.
We finish cataloging the rest of the cart in silence, the only sounds being the soft thud of books on the table and the scratch of my pen on the inventory sheet. I focus so hard on the classification numbers that they start to swim, but it’s better than looking at Jax. The fact that I’m almost disappointed when Ms. Rowan finally clears her throat and tells us we’re free to go just proves how far gone I really am.
As we head out, Jax says, “So. You in?”
“In what?” I ask.
“Watching the tape. Tomorrow. After school. My place.”
I let out a short laugh. “No.”
“I’m in,” Ivan says quickly.
We both look at him.
His ears turn red. “I—I want to know.”
Jax nods once. “Then it’s all three or none.”
Ivan looks at me, hopeful, and I hate that it works on me.
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’m in.”
Jax smiles, satisfied. “Good. My parents won’t be home. Just come over. I live?—”
“Everyone knows where you live,” Ivan sighs.
He’s right. Everyone knows where Jax St. Clair lives.
Three
NOW | JAX
Ikeep telling myself I'm on this side of town for a reason—inventory, paperwork, a shipment only I can inspect. Standard bar-owner errands, but even I’m getting tired of lying to myself.
Tar City looks rougher than usual tonight. Or maybe it’s just the fucking headache that won’t quit. The street lamps buzz louder, the trash reeks, and Lewis—the old bastard who runs the liquor depot—is riding my ass harder than usual too.
“St. Clair,” he grumbles, shoving a clipboard at me. “You can’t keep ordering like you’re running a damn nightclub. People don’t drink that much here.”
“They do,” I say flatly, flipping through the boxes myself.
“I told you I could deliver it.”
“You know I prefer checking it myself.”
He gives me that look—the kind old men reserve for stubborn morons they’ve known too long.
“You’re not fooling anyone, St. Clair.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
“And you sure as hell ain’t subtle.”
I ignore that. He’s not wrong, and we both know it.
I finish checking the last case and give the delivery guy the nod. He slams the truck door shut and Lewis winces.
“You’re supposed to tip my guy,” he gripes.
