Page 123 of Anything But Lonely

We all exchange greetings, and I introduce Emilio to Rumi and Ava before we all fall into easy conversation. The band is getting ready to go on, and I check the time on my phone.

“Emerson’s still closing up?” Rumi asks me.

“She should be done by now.” I look around the bar, wondering if maybe I missed her coming in, but I don’t see her.

But I do see Brooke.

She and Emilio found a small corner of the bar, the two of them cozying up quickly.

Taking the last sip of my beer, I set the bottle on the bar. “Hey, Brooke. Is Emerson here?”

Brooke tears her eyes from Emilio to look around the bar. “She’s not here?”

I shake my head.

“She said she was going to take the trash out and then come over. She told me to head over without her,” Brooke says, her smile fading.

“I’m sure she’s on her way,” I say, but I can’t ignore this nagging feeling that something is wrong. Looking around the bar again, I spot Rumi and Ava chatting as Anderson talks Jack’s ear off. I see the pods of people from the station between the small crowd of patrons surrounding the stage in the back corner.

And then I freeze. There’s one person I don’t see.

And it’s fucking Jenkins.

I don’t hesitate, ignoring the people calling my name as I push through the crowd to get to the back door of Lenny’s.

After years of coming here and being close friends with not only the owner but a handful of people who worked here over the last decade, I know exactly what door leads to the dumpster that Lenny’s and Hey Honey’s share.

A sick feeling settles in my gut with every step.

Maybe I'm overreacting.

Maybe Emerson is just outside taking a call or getting some air.

Maybe she’s already inside, and I missed her.

But the longer I go without seeing her, the louder the warning bells in my head become.

The metal door slams against the wall as I shove through it.

Cool night air hits me immediately.

The alley behind Lenny's is narrow, lit by a single security light that casts long shadows across the cracked pavement.

My eyes sweep the alley.

The loading dock. The fence. The dumpster.

Nothing.

Then voices drift from around the corner. One of them belongs to Emerson, and relief hits first—but it only lasts a second.

Because the tone of her voice has every muscle in my body tightening. I move faster, and that’s when I hear another voice. While Emerson’s is flat and irritated, the other is raised.

My pace quickens.

The dumpster comes into focus, and I can make out two figures next to it.

Emerson's back is against the wall.