“Who’s your dad?” she asks, flicking ash from her cigarette with effortless cool.
“Chuck.”
She nods once. “He’s at the bar.”
Of course he is.“Thanks.”
The blonde stays silent, arms crossed and eyes locked on me, gauging whether I’m a friend or a threat. The tension in her stance suggests she’s leaning toward the latter.
“I’m Frankie,” the black-haired girl offers with a knowing smile. There’s a glint in her eyes, a spark that hints she knows more than she’s saying. “See you around, maybe.”
“Candace,” I say, flat as concrete. Then I push through the door and into the chaos.
The club shuts behind me, hard and final. Inside, the air is thick with sweat and smoke. Boots thud across concrete. A fight plays on the mounted TV to the right; Pereira throwing wild punches. Shouts echo off the walls as a group cheers over pool and darts. The meeting room door is closed, guarded tight. Malachi’s space is somewhere upstairs. But my attention cuts straight to the bar.
There he is. Chuck. Nursing a beer as if the world hasn’t chewed us both up and spit us out.
Tension coils low in my gut. Every time he acts this way—calm, casual, careless—I feel a part of me decay. As if he’s taken something that once belonged to me and twisted it into comfort for himself.
Bitterness rises in my throat. I remember all the times I came home to an empty fridge, a pawn slip sitting where the TV used to be, a dad passed out in his chair… and now this.
I stalk to the bar, the sound of my boots swallowed by the din. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a few patched members slipping out of the meeting room, one of them nodding to James before the door clicks shut behind them. That tightens something in my gut, but I keep moving.
The prospect behind the bar barely looks at me.
“What can I get ya?”
“I’m here to pay off Chuck’s tab.” My voice is cool steel.
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re here to pay—”
“I’m his daughter. How much?”
He leans in, all secrecy and mischief. “Two-fifty.”
Figures. Dad said two hundred. Always a lie in his mouth, even if it’s small.
I pull out three hundreds and slap them onto the counter. “Keep the change. I doubt he tipped.”
I turn before the guy can stammer a thank you. My pulse hammers as I make my way to the meeting room, the knot in my gut growing tighter with each step. I told myself I was done doing this. That I wouldn’t save him again.
And yet, here I am. Bleeding for a man who never once bled for me.
“Candy? What are you doing here?”
My teeth clench at the nickname my leech of a father calls me. I don’t turn.
I notice James again. His eyes land on me, crinkling in recognition. When I was little, he used to sneak me caramel chews and call me songbird. A nickname he only used when Chuck wasn’t around. He said it was because my voice reminded him of something softer, something worth protecting. It stuck, even when nothing else did. Sometimes he’d hand me one just to watch my eyes light up, chasing a glimpse of joy in a house that rarely held any. Back then, it felt as though he saw me—not Chuck’s kid, not someone to ignore—but me. For a long time, that was enough to keep me searching for the man who gave me that name. He’s the only one who ever looked at me and saw a child, not just Chuck’s burden.
I used to hum while I did the dishes, low and quiet, just enough to fill the silence. He always heard it. Said I had music in me, even when the world tried to choke it out. I haven’t let a song pass my lips in years. But sometimes the lyrics still rise, ghosting through me when it gets too loud inside.
Malachi isn’t out here. He must still be in the meeting room.
Ignoring the prospect guarding the door, I move.
“Hey! You can’t go in there—”
I slam the door open so hard it bounces off the wall. Three men jump to their feet. Hands twitch to guns.
