And God help me, I think I’m already breaking anyway.
Chapter 25
Candace
Thenextfewdays,I avoid him with the same dread I’d give a second job I hate but can’t quit.
If I hear the heavy tread of his boots echo down the hall, I pivot. My spine snaps straight, a reflex I can’t unlearn, tension flaring behind my ribs before I’ve even processed the sound. The weight of his presence hits me before I ever see him—thick, magnetic, a gravity I keep trying to escape.
If he’s at the bar, I hover outside pretending I’ve got something better to do. Breathing doesn’t feel harder around him. My chest compresses, lungs stuttering in protest whenever he’s too close. There’s a hum beneath my skin that rises when he’s near. Something electric. Unforgiving.
If he so much as looks ready to talk to me, I find something to clean, somewhere to disappear. A smudge on a glass, a stain on the floor; excuses I cling to, desperate for a lifeline.
If I had anywhere else to sleep, I’d be gone already. Ruby let me crash at her place for a couple nights, but her parents nitpick everything and I didn’t want to be another reason they hovered, circling with judgment. Her house always smells of soap and vanilla, but it’s too quiet. Too sterile. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life and it’s only a matter of time before I get found out.
But none of it works. Because the second my eyes close, he’s there.
His hands, his mouth. The rasp of his voice saying things I tried to forget even as they stitched themselves into me. Words that sear. Promises I never asked for.
He hasn’t said a word about that night. Hasn’t chased, hasn’t pushed. Just quietly handed over his room, knowing I’d be too wrecked to ask. He’s been crashing on the clubhouse couch since, and somehow, that makes it worse. Because he knows I’m running and he’s letting me.
Which means he feels something. And so do I.
Even his name in my head makes my stomach twist; regret swallowed whole.
So I tell myself it was just sex. I chant it, a prayer on repeat when I wake up at 3AM, skin damp, lungs tight, heart a mess. His scent still clings to the sheets, a ghost I can’t shake. I pretend I don’t remember the way his breath felt on the back of my neck, something that belonged there. Something that claimed me. Something I let happen.
I pick up extra shifts at the country club and ignore the fact that he offered me a bartending job at the clubhouse. Because it’s the one I actually want. The one with people who don’t make me feel small.
When did that place start feeling like home? When did I start wanting to be there?
Sometimes, when no one’s looking, I scribble lyrics on napkins between orders. Tiny, half-formed lines I fold and shove into my apron pocket, hiding them the way you’d tuck away a secret.
Work is numb. Long hours, forced smiles, laughter that doesn’t reach my eyes. There’s a new manager—Rick. I don’t know what happened to Cliff, and neither does Ruby. Rumor was Cliff left without a word after a screaming match in the kitchen. One day he was there, the next he wasn’t. Just another person who vanished when things got too messy.
Rick’s the kind of guy who thinks micromanaging is a personality. Loves to hover, criticize.
“You good, Candace?” he asks on Wednesday, eyes too sharp, voice fake-smooth. “You’re kinda zoning.”
I give him a brittle smile. “Didn’t sleep.” My voice feels foreign in my throat.
He shrugs like that’s a you problem. “Fix it.”
So I try. I pour waters and nod at bad jokes while dealing with middle-aged creeps who confuse their Rolexes for charm. Technically, I’m floor manager, but turnover’s a nightmare, so I’m stuck waitressing more than anything else. I don’t mind. I need the tips. Especially now.
The floorboards under my feet feel thinner lately, one wrong step away from breaking through.
Thursday night claws deeper. Private event. Expensive liquor. Plastic smiles. Men in pressed slacks and women with manicured claws for mouths. I jump behind the bar when the barback calls out sick. I shouldn’t have.
“Wrong pour,” Rick snaps as I pour the scotch with too generous a hand. “This isn’t a dive.”
I bite back the urge to throw the drink in his face. Instead, I remake it, apologize, and swallow the shame. It scalds all the way down.
Later, some hedge fund asshole grabs my wrist when I drop his tab. It yanks me back to the night Malachi told one of his men to get his hands off me. That quiet fury. The weight of it. The way it made me feel seen and guarded in the same breath.
But tonight, I don’t flinch. Don’t freeze. Just slowly pull my hand free and meet the guy’s eyes with a calm that’s colder than fear.
“Careful,” I murmur. “You’ll choke on that wedding ring you forgot to take off.”
