Her eyes flick around, landing on East who is, predictably, sulking. Slowly, I feel her settle. Just an inch of weight easing into me. Then two. It’s enough to make something in my chest go still.
“You like karaoke?” Kyle asks, voice hopeful.
She shrugs, a little too quickly. “Not if East is singing.”
But her fingers tug at the edge of her hoodie sleeve, and her gaze flicks away for a second too long. There’s something behind the sarcasm. Nerves. A private truth she’s not ready to share. Maybe karaoke means more than a joke to her. Maybe it’s a secret she’s never said out loud.
“Oh come on!” East throws his head back. “Y’all act like I’m tone-deaf!”
“You are tone-deaf,” Ruby announces as she strolls in. “What’d I miss?”
“Kyle’s getting his patch inked,” Knox says.
Candace’s gaze shifts to Kyle. “Really?” He nods, ears red. “Welcome to the family,” she says, voice low but real. It lands harder than anything else tonight.
“I’m bringing cupcakes,” Ruby says. “But only if East promises not to sing Achy Breaky Heart.” Then, nudging Candace, “I’ll save you one of the good ones. Extra frosting.”
“I still think Malachi only offered me a job so I’d stop threatening to poison the country club’s espresso machine,” Ruby adds.
“You’re not wrong,” I mutter.
“I make no such promises,” East declares.
Frankie’s already unpacking her tattoo gear, glancing up just as Darla wanders over to her side. Their arms brush, and Darla leans in close, whispering something that makes Frankie snort. She passes Darla a soda without missing a beat. Their heads tilt together, drawn as if gravity favors them that way.
Then Darla, almost shyly, looks toward East. “Maybe I’ll sing one with you.”
East’s eyes brighten, expression lit with joy saved for a loaded mic. “Hell yeah, you will.”
Something passes between them. It’s barely a flicker, but it sticks. I watch it settle in Darla’s eyes. That careful look of someone trying not to hope.
And I wonder, just for a second, does East know? Does he remember what happened months ago? That night with her and me, blurred by anger and bad decisions? If he does, he hides it well.
“You’re a menace,” Frankie mutters, already unpacking her tattoo gear.
Candace laughs—surprised and soft, the sound slipping out before she can stop it. It sinks into my chest, spreading warmth through iron.
Sloane’s not here, hospital shift, but Knox keeps glancing toward the door anyway. His hand brushes his phone. Doesn’t pick it up. Doesn’t have to.
Candace’s eyes drift to Frankie’s setup, lingering on the ink bottles like she’s imagining what that needle might feel like on her skin. She doesn’t ask. But I see the question bloom behind her eyes. The want. The fear. The thought of permanence.
She’s not all the way in. Not yet. But she’s here. For tonight, that’s enough.
Chapter 33
Candace
ThereasonIeverwanted to tend bar was simple. Money. Not just the hourly, but the tips. The drunker the men, the more they talked,andthe more they tipped. Liquor loosened their tongues and their wallets, blurring the line between generosity and guilt. I learned how to lean into that early.
But lately… it feels different.
Maybe it’s because, for once, I’m not looking over my shoulder wondering if my dad’s gonna ruin everything I’ve clawed together. Maybe it’s because Malachi handed me that stack of cash without hesitation, as though I meant something. I tried to refuse it. Swore I wouldn’t take it. But he can be relentless in the way gravity is. You don’t realize you’re falling until your feet are no longer on the ground.
My fingers drift to the rag I’ve been clutching too long, soaked through and cold now. I grip it tighter, turning it into a rhythm I don’t even realize I’m tapping—slow, steady, just enough toground the static building in my chest. The same kind of beat I hum sometimes when no one’s listening. A wordless melody ghosts through my mind; one I started scribbling a week ago on the back of a bar napkin. I tucked it into my jacket, then forgot it was there. But now the lyrics try to come back, rising the way breath moves through water. I swallow them down.
It’s slow tonight. Early evening on a Friday, the kind of lull that happens before the real crowd shows up. Ruby’s perched on the barstool closest to the service station, sipping soda through a swirly straw like it’s whiskey, offering lazy commentary on everything and nothing. Across the room, the guys are gathered in low conversation, half-shadowed, half-lit by the dim glow of the hanging lights. They’re planning something. Hunting my father. Hunting Donovan.
My rag circles the same spot on the counter over and over, but I can’t stop watching them. Malachi is angled toward me. Every time I look up, he’s already watching. There’s heat in his gaze. Not the kind that burns, but the kind that melts. It makes my stomach twist in ways I’m not ready to unpack.
