“Okay.”
I press another kiss to her mouth, because I can’t not. Then I rest my forehead against hers. “Keep the box,” I whisper.
She nods again, and I watch her walk back to her car, hair plastered to her cheeks, taillights glowing red through the rain.
When she’s gone, I stand there for a long time, the smell of her shampoo still clinging to my hands.
Then I go back inside.
The room hasn’t changed—same smoke, same money, same tired men—but I feel different. Kyle gives me a look from behind the bar, like he can tell something shifted.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just finish up the last order.”
He nods and gets back to work.
I grab my phone, step into the storage room, and text Miles.
Me: We need to talk.
No punctuation, no explanation. Just that.
Because if Chloe’s leaving—if this whole mess is finally catching up to us—I’m done letting it rot in silence.
I pocket the phone, take one last breath, and head back out to finish the night.
22
Miles
ThestreetlightsblurasI pull into the lot behind the old auto shop, engine idling low, the kind of purr that sayskeep moving or get caught. Rico’s already there, leaning against his car, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He flicks it away when he sees me, stamping it under his boot. The faint hum of freight trains from the south line fills the air.
“Got it all?” he asks, popping the trunk.
“Yeah.” I grab the duffel, unzip it just enough for him to see the neat rows of orange bottles. Adderall, pressed and packed, ready for the midterm rush. “University kids can’t get enough of this shit.”
Rico snorts. “Yeah, they think it’s just brain fuel. Never mind that they’re paying for Victor’s next Mercedes.”
I toss the bag into the back of his car. The transaction’s quick, routine. Cash moves one way, product the other. By the time we finish, the only thing left in my hands is the familiar ache in my stomach—the one that never leaves when I think too hard about what I’m doing with my life.
Rico checks his watch. “You heading to your uncle’s?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, wiping my hands on my jeans. “He wants a report.”
“Good luck, man,” he says with a crooked grin. “You know he’s been extra jumpy since the Marano thing.”
Don’t remind me.
The drive to Victor’s warehouse is short, but it feels longer. My uncle’s men are posted outside, smoking, watching. I nod to them, step inside. The air smells like beer, old grease, and power—Victor’s version of perfume.
He’s sitting behind his desk, hunched over a ledger, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow. His thick silver ring taps the wood as he flips pages. When he looks up, his eyes are small and sharp, like a hawk’s.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I made the drop. We moved everything.”
He leans back. “Good.” Then, unexpectedly, “You play tonight?”
