Because if I do, he will see it on my face.
The curiosity. The hunger.
The truth that I have no fucking idea why, but I cannot stop thinking about her.
The night rolls on like it always does at The Crest, messy and loud, music blaring from the jukebox, people laughing too hard, drinking too much, pressing against each other in every corner where the shadows are thick enough to hide things. I have been working this bar since I was old enough to lift a keg, and nothing here surprises me anymore. Not the cheerleaders doing body shots, not the old timers falling asleep on their stools, not even my best friend sitting there with a storm behind his eyes.
I am drying a glass when one of the bouncers, Tony, leans over the counter. His voice is low, meant only for me. “Jamie, X is here.”
Of course he is. He always shows up eventually, same time, same routine. I sigh, toss the towel over my shoulder, and nod. “Tell Kyle to man the bar while I step out.”
Kyle, the other kid working tonight, looks up from the end of the counter, wide-eyed but eager. He loves feeling important, loves being trusted. I wave him over, point to the taps. “Keep it simple, beer and whiskey, nothing fancy. Don’t fuck it up.”
He grins like I just knighted him. “Got it.”
I reach under the counter, pull out the envelope waiting for nights like this, thick with bills. It’s not my money. It is the bar’s, my father’s. But I am the one who hands it off. That’s my job.
Outside, the air is cooler, the sound of the bar muffled once the door shuts behind me. The parking lot is half lit, a broken bulb flickering overhead, throwing everything into a jittery strobe. And there he is—X.
His real name is Detective Maxwell, but around here he is just X. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, the kind of man who keeps his hair trimmed military short even though he has been off duty for years. His shirt is tucked in neat, his badge clipped to his belt, like he wants everyone to see it even when he is supposedly off the clock. He is the kind of cop who pretends he is better than the people he shakes down, but we both know the truth.
He usually brings his partner, a brunette with sharp eyes and sharper teeth. I’ve fucked her on more than one late night when she was bored enough and drunk enough to let me. She never complained. Neither did I.
But tonight he’s alone.
I hold the envelope loosely in my hand and nod at him. “Where’s your partner? She finally get sick of your face?”
His mouth twitches, but he does not smile. “Transfer. She caught a better posting uptown.”
I click my tongue, genuine disappointment cutting through my sarcasm. “Sucks. She was good company.”
He lifts his brows. “She told me.”
I grin, slow and shameless, because I know exactly what he means. “And?”
“And I don’t swing that way.”
That earns him a full laugh out of me, loud enough to echo against the brick wall. “Jesus, X. As if I was offering. Don’t flatter yourself.” I shove the envelope into his chest, still laughing. “Here. Keep the lights off us another month.”
He takes it, tucking the cash away with the kind of practiced ease that says he has been doing this for longer than I have been alive. His eyes narrow slightly, scanning the parking lot, the bar, the shadows. Always on edge, always watching.
“You still letting kids drink in there?” he asks, voice casual but lined with warning.
I shrug. “They’re old enough to walk in, old enough to pay. Who am I to check IDs?”
He snorts, but he doesn’t press. As long as that envelope keeps coming, The Crest can burn itself to the ground for all he cares.
“What about your old man?” he asks finally, eyes flicking back to me. “Haven’t seen him around in a while.”
I lean against the wall, light a cigarette, and take a slow drag before answering. “He’s busy.”
X nods, like that is all the answer he needs. “Tell him I said hello.” Then he straightens, glancing at his watch. “Listen, patrol is running through this area around midnight. You don’t want them walking in and finding half the university passed out on your floor. Clear the place out before then.”
I exhale smoke, slow, steady. “Got it.”
“Pleasure doing business,” he says, and then he turns, walking back to his cruiser parked down the street.
I watch him go, flick the cigarette butt to the ground, and grind it out under my boot. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I pull it out, already typing a message to my father.
