Frankie returns with a steaming mug that smells of chamomile, and a shot glass filled with golden tequila. She sets them on the table in front of me before drifting over to a small wooden chest in the corner. She pulls out a thick white candle and a bundle of dried herbs tied with twine.
“What’s that for?” I ask, wrapping my cold hands around the warm mug.
She strikes a match; the flame flares to life in the dim light. “Just clearing the air,” she says with a casual shrug, lighting the candle, then the tip of the herb bundle. A plume of fragrant gray smoke curls toward the ceiling, carrying a clean, earthy scent. “You brought some bad energy with you.” The smoke curls toward me, slow and deliberate. For a second, I swear it forms the outline of a door before it dissolves. The hair on my arms rises, but the tightness in my chest eases.
She says it so matter-of-factly that I don’t question it. I just watch the smoke drift, feeling the last of the evening’s suffocating atmosphere dissipate. Frankie circles the room once with the smoking herbs before setting them in a small ceramic bowl, the scent of sage and something I can’t name settlingaround us like a protective blanket. It feels strange, but in a good way. Like she’s physically chasing the ghosts out of the room.
She reclaims her seat, tucking her legs beneath her. “So,” she says, her voice soft. “Wanna talk about it, or do you just want to sit here and pretend the world isn’t a dumpster fire for a while?”
I take the shot of tequila, the burn a welcome fire in my throat, chasing away the chill that has settled in my bones. “Let’s go with dumpster fire.”
She nods, understanding completely. We don’t talk about Trent, or my father, or the suffocating weight of expectation. We don’t have to. Instead, a playful glint enters her eye. “You know, I put on the Grease 2 soundtrack while I was cleaning earlier. Made me wonder if you still know every single word to ‘Cool Rider’.”
A real laugh escapes me, surprising us both. “Obviously. It’s a cinematic masterpiece and I will not hear a word against it.”
Her smile widens. “That look on your face. It reminds me of high school. The one you’d get right before you went on stage for Guys and Dolls, like you were about to commit the perfect crime.”
“My father almost had a stroke when he found out I took the lead,” I say, the memory bringing a sharp, satisfying thrill. “It was glorious.”
“You were a better Adelaide than the original,” she says, picking up her sketchbook again, her fingers finding a charcoal pencil. “You still remember any of her songs? What was that one… ‘A Bushel and a Peck’?”
The tequila has warmed a path straight to a part of me I keep locked away. A reckless, joyful part. I hesitate for only a second before a grin spreads across my face. I hop off the couch, strike a comically dramatic pose, and with a terrible New York accent, I start to sing.
“I love you a bushel and a peck! You bet your pretty neck I do!”
I kick my leg up, using the wine bottle on the coffee table as a makeshift microphone. I’m not just singing; I’m performing. For Frankie. For myself. The notes are a little shaky, the dance moves ridiculous, but the joy is real. It’s a joy that fills my lungs, pushing out all the stale, recycled air from my father’s house. As I launch into the next verse, twirling around a floor lamp, I notice Frankie isn’t just watching. Her hand is moving, swift and sure across the page, and her eyes flick up to my face between strokes with a small, focused smile on her lips.
When I finish with a final, breathless flourish, collapsing back onto the couch in a fit of giggles, the loft is filled with a warm, buzzing energy. The performance didn’t leave me hollow. It left me full.
“Okay,” I say, catching my breath and lean forward, trying to peek at her sketchbook. She angles it away with a smirk. “What is it? Kraken versus unicorn?”
Frankie just shakes her head, still smiling, and turns the sketchbook around. The portrait isn’t perfect. It’s better. It’s a few quick, energetic lines of charcoal, but she’s captured it all. The life in my eyes, the real, uninhibited smile, the motion of the dance. She’s drawn the girl who isn’t a porcelain doll. She’s drawn me.
My breath catches in my throat. I trace the line of the smile with my fingertip, a wave of emotion so potent it makes my eyes sting.
“That’s you,” Frankie says softly, her voice devoid of pity, full of simple truth. “The real one. Don’t let them make you forget her.”
The dam breaks. The tears I’ve been swallowing all night finally spill over, hot and silent down my cheeks. I don’t even try to stop them. I just surge off the couch and wrap my arms around her, burying my face in the crook of her neck. Her arms come around me instantly, a solid, grounding weight.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice thick and muffled against her shoulder. “You were there through the worst of it. Even when I pushed you away, you never gave up on me.” I pull back just enough to look at her, my vision blurry. “I’m so sorry I’ve been such a ghost for so long.”
Frankie’s expression is soft, her hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “Hey. None of that,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m right here. Always was.”
As the record crackles in the silence between songs, my mind, finally quiet enough to think, drifts back to the clubhouse. To the back alley. To the feel of brick against my back and the heat radiating from East’s body. “It was confused seven years ago.” His words echo in my head. He hasn’t forgotten. The tangled mess between us feels as strong to him as it does to me. He stopped himself from kissing me, but for a second, I saw the desire in his eyes. He wanted to.
The thought sends a slow, dangerous warmth curling through my stomach. It’s a warmth that has nothing to do with the tequila. It’s the terrifying, thrilling feeling that in running from one cage, I might be running toward a different danger entirely. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what I want.
Chapter 9
East
“…sothecharityrunis locked for the 15th. All proceeds go to the veterans’ fund.”
Malachi’s voice is a low rumble, the final word on a discussion I’ve tuned out for the last twenty minutes. It usually commands the full attention of the war room, a space that smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and old leather. Tonight, it’s just background noise. A dull thrum against the frantic, high-pitched ringing in my head. My knee is bouncing a frantic rhythm under the table, the only outward sign of the storm brewing inside me.
My thumb swipes across the cool glass of my phone screen for the tenth time. No calls. No texts. Nothing. Just the image of the clock ticking past nine, and the sick, coiling knot in my gut that gets worse with every minute she’s in that house. Just a text, Frankie. I just need to know if she’s safe. Hope is a stupid, useless thing, but it’s all I have.
Dinner. With Trent Moreland. The words have been on a loop in my head since Frankie mentioned it, each repetition anothertwist of a knife. I picture the scene: a stuffy dining room, her father playing the proud patriarch, and Trent looking at her like she’s a prize he’s already won, his slimy hand probably covering hers on the table. The image makes my teeth grind, the muscles in my jaw aching with the pressure. My hand clenches into a fist under the table, the need to hit something a physical, burning ache. I hear Declan’s laugh in the back of my skull. It’s the good one, the one that used to cut through every bad idea. It makes the silence in here feel louder.
