I’m halfway through my drink when my phone buzzes.
Dad.
Dad:Shipment tonight. Be here by 10. Big one.
The air in my lungs turns to smoke. I slide out of the booth, mumble an excuse about work, and head for the car.
The Crest looks different late at night. Quieter, meaner. The old neon sign flickers over the alleyway, and the parking lot’s packed with trucks that don’t belong to locals. Inside, the air’s thick with cigar smoke and the metallic tang of money changing hands.
Dad’s in his usual corner, gray suit sharp enough to cut glass. “Kyle’s behind the bar,” he says without looking up from his ledger. “Keep your eyes open. We’ve got cartel buyers tonight. They’re not here for small talk.”
“Got it.”
He doesn’t ask about school. He doesn’t ask about the team or the game. He never does.
I take my post by the bar, scanning faces. The crates come in steady—unmarked boxes, all “kitchen supplies” on paper. Inside it’s military-grade rifles wrapped in plastic. Kyle handles the pour and the cash. I handle the eyes and the guns. It’s business. Dirty but clean enough to pass inspection if you don’t look too hard.
Everything goes smooth. For once. The buyers come and go, handshakes, coded words, thin smiles. No one raises their voice. No one bleeds.
By midnight, I’m ready to call it a good night.
Then she walks in.
Chloe.
She’s holding a cardboard box, rain dripping from her hair, eyes too bright for this place.
The whole bar blurs around her. She looks out of place—too soft, too human. And she shouldn’t be here. Not tonight.
I move fast. “Chloe.”
Heads turn when I say her name. I force a smile, stepping between her and the bar before anyone can get curious.
“What are you doing here?” I keep my voice low, careful. “You can’t—this isn’t a good time.”
“I know.” She hugs the box tighter. “I just… I needed to see you.”
I glance over my shoulder. Two cartel guys are watching her, half-interested, half-bored. My pulse spikes. “We can talk outside.”
She nods.
I steer her toward the back door, keeping my body between her and everyone else. Once we’re out in the alley, I exhale.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, not unkindly. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place tonight.”
“Why?”
“Private party!” I lie.
“I didn’t know,” she says, voice small. “I just had to drop these off.” She sets the box down, nudging it toward me with her shoe. “Some of your stuff. Shirts. A hoodie. The book you left on my nightstand.”
I stare at the box. It feels heavier than it looks. “You could’ve tossed it.”
“I know.” Her laugh is brittle. “But I didn’t want to. Not without seeing you.”
Something in my chest twists. “You withdrew from school.”
She nods. “I couldn’t stay.”
