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I went to my closet, then into an old, empty shoe box, shoving in the drugs, then piling random shit all over and around it before creeping back out, putting the screen back into place, and moving the table exactly where I’d found it.
Then I took the walk back toward the apartment building, finding myself drenched in a cold sweat by the time I made it back to my car.
“Hey, Nyx, you okay?” Chet, the other bartender on shift, asked a few days later, when I nearly jumped out of my skin when a bottle clinked back into the speed rail.
“What? Yeah. I’m fine,” I insisted.
“Hey, it’s me,” Chet said, moving closer so he could lower his voice. “I can see something is up. You can talk to me about it.”
“I’m just frazzled,” I insisted, knowing the words came off on a false note.
I was more than frazzled.
I was fucking frantic.
Out of my mind with worry. With confusion. With anger for being put in this situation.
“Nyx, come on,” Chet said, moving to lean against the back bar next to me.
It was a slow night. Which wasn’t helping. If I were busy, my mind would be at least partially occupied. But all we had in were a few COs fresh from work and a group of five guys watching some boxing match between social media celebrities on our biggest TV.
“It’s… personal,” I insisted.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
And I was about to do it.
Open my mouth and spill all of my dirty little secrets.
But then the doors flew open and the guys from the club came flooding in, sans Judge and Crow who were more settled down and hanging in with their women.
But Riff and Raff had been in town for a while, closing down the bar almost every night.
Raff, as usual, made a beeline for the bar.
Not for a drink.
Not to enjoy my company, though he did.
But to ask for Lula.
The man was nothing if not determined, I had to give him that.
Though she would never admit it, Lula was absolutely charmed by his attention. So much so that I wasn’t quite sure why she had never given in to him.
Riff and Raff—brothers, obviously—were both stupidly good-looking guys. Both were tall, fit, black-haired, square-jawed, and dark-eyed.
Riff had a cultured beard and only a few tattoos.
Raff was clean-shaven and covered in some great ink. I mean, he had a few pieces that he dragged out for shits and giggles, crappy pieces that he’d had done when he was young and stupid.
The guy had a stick figure style Marvin the Martian tattoo.
And a slice of pepperoni pizza on his ankle.
Maybe Lula’s restraint was because her cousin, Detroit, was in the club with Raff.
Or perhaps Lula was looking to shack up with guys who weren’t known criminals. Her life was murky enough, doing the books for the Murphy brothers.
