Page 116 of Top Shelf

“That is if the Little Serpent agrees to go?” Ronan stares at me intently. Something in my chest stutters. I forget how to breathe for a moment because the look in his eyes isn’t teasing…it’s hunger. Admiration. A promise of something far more than a simple date to a gala.

I swallow hard. “Okay,” I say, the word barely a whisper.

Ronan’s lips tip into a slow, crooked smile, but there’s something behind it. Something deeper.

“Good,” is all he says.

29

WREN

The next coupleof weeks pass in a blur of classes, internship work, and hanging out with the guys. We spend most of our free time together, and Ronan and I have been flat out organizing everything for the Kings Youth Charity Weekend, which will take place next week.

Tonight, I’m working at the Crooked Crown. Silas has become a solitary constant when I’m on shift, setting up shop at the bar with his notepad and pen while I pour pints and bustle between tables. Sometimes he brings his laptop to do coursework, and other times he just doodles, or we play a game of twenty questions, going back and forth answering them throughout the duration of my shift. I’ve learned so much about him these past few weeks. Everything from his favorite genre of music—Indie rock with the likes of Arctic Monkeys and Radiohead being his fav bands—to the quiet pre-game breathing routine he slips into while the others line up, a ritual he says sharpens his focus and lets him anchor himself before hitting the ice.

The more time I spend with him, the more I understand him. Not just his quirks, but the rhythm of how he exists in theworld. We’ve developed our own language: a glance, a gesture, a scribble in his notepad. I know when he’s teasing, when he’s frustrated, when he wants to share a thought without saying a word. These little glimpses, these tiny windows into him, have drawn me closer in ways I didn’t expect. There’s a trust there now, quiet and unspoken, and I treasure it.

I move behind the bar, rinsing out pint glasses. Letting the warm water run over my fingers, my mind is half on the rhythm of my work, half on the steady presence of Silas at the end of the bar. He’s leaning slightly on the bar, shoulders broad but relaxed, the sleeve of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show the lean curve of his forearm. His white-blond hair falls slightly over his forehead, a few rebellious strands catching the light, and I notice the way his jaw tightens when he’s focused. His eyes—sharp, calculating, and impossibly expressive—follow me with quiet intensity, like he’s memorizing every little motion. Every time I move past him, his scent of vetiver speaks of the quiet control that defines him. He’s flipping a coin between his fingers, slow and precise, his eyes fixed on me even as he plays with it.

Lifting my chin, I ask, “What’s with the coin?” I always see him playing with it while staring at me or deep in thought, and I’ve been curious about it for a while now. “Does it mean something, or is it a habit to help you focus?”

His movements stop, the coin sticking out from between his index and middle fingers. Blinking, he continues to stare at me before lowering his gaze to the coin. Tossing it in the air, he catches it in his palm before setting it on the bar top and pushing it toward me. I get my first proper look at it, noticing the darkened bronze tone, worn smooth from what looks like decades of handling. The edges are softened, rounded, as if hundreds of fingers have traced the rim.

When I lift it, the weight is surprisingly solid, cool againstmy palm. The front bears a simple stamped year, pressed with a rough imperfection, while the back is completely flat. Tiny nicks and scratches scatter across its surface. It feels intimate, like a talisman that has quietly held meaning for someone. For Silas?

Silas’s notebook slides into my field of view.

Do you recognize it?

I frown, first at the page, then at Silas, before returning my focus to the worn coin.

“No.” Running my thumb over the top of it, I shake my head. “Should I?”

A heaviness sits in the air between us, cloying enough that I lift my gaze, meeting Silas’s eyes. They are dulled by a cacophony of emotions. His shoulders are hunched with a weight of responsibility, like he’s been carrying some sort of hidden knowledge for too long.

I stiffen, sensing the ominous history behind the coin as he, almost reluctantly, lifts his pen and begins to write. When he pushes the notebook across the bar toward me, I hesitate, searching his gaze—for what, I’m not sure—before slowly lowering my gaze.

It takes reading what he’s written two times before the words fully penetrate.

I found it on the ground near your body that night.

My stomach dropsso violently that I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. For a split second, the world blurs at the edges. Bass-heavy music. Wet grass pressing against my knees. The distant sound of laughter somewhere down the street. A hand on my skin.

No!

I blink hard, forcing myself back into the present before the memory can fully take hold. “It could have already been there,” I croak, lacking the strength to make my voice any louder.

He nods, shrugging in a way that saysit could have been, but he doesn’t believe that’s the case.

You were near an abandoned house.

“That squatters or druggies probably used all the time,” I argue, not even fully believing what I’m saying. Blackstone was a small college town. While there were drugs around, homeless drug users weren’t really an issue.

It’s the sort of coin a player would get for a commemorative game or for being an MVP.

My mouth goes dry, my breathing turning shallow as I stare at the coin as though simply that will be enough to get it to tell me its history.

So whoever he is…is a member of a sports team.