“You hovering over her shoulder isn’t going to save her. It’ll just make her feel caged.” She turns that look on me, her eyes seeming to see straight through my skull. “She’s not in danger, East. Not tonight. I’d feel it.”
I clench my jaw. I hate when she does that. Because I’ve known her long enough to know her ‘feelings’ are never wrong. It’s frustrating supernatural bullshit I’ve learned to trust more than I trust the stock market.
“So I’m just supposed to sit here?” I ask, the words tight.
She gives me one last pointed look before sliding off the stool. “Don’t burn a hole in the floor pacing. Go be you. She’ll be fine.”
She walks out, leaving me alone at the bar. For a second, I let myself stew in the truth of her words. But she’s right. Sulking won’t do a damn thing. Performance is a better painkiller.
I spot Knox and James over by the dartboard, arguing over a shot. Perfect.
“For fuck’s sake, Knox, my dead grandmother could make that shot, and she’s half ash in an urn,” I call out, clapping him on the shoulder as I approach. “Let a professional show you how it’s done.”
Knox flips me off without turning. “Piss off, East. I’m concentrating.”
“You’re concentrating on embarrassing the club,” I say, plucking a dart from the board. “Three throws. Loser buys the next round for the whole bar.”
“You’re on,” Knox grunts, finally turning to face me, the challenge accepted.
A cheer goes up from the guys who’ve gathered to watch. Perfect. An audience. The pressure settles on my shoulders, a familiar, welcome weight. For the next ten minutes, I’m not the guy choking on helplessness. I’m East, the charming asshole, the life of the party. It’s a role I know how to play.
“Alright, ladies,” I call out to the room, grabbing three darts. Chalk dust coats my fingers. Grip. Aim. Pretend the shake isn’t there. “Lesson one: how to beat a man who throws like he’s trying to start a lawnmower.”
Knox just flips me off as a wave of laughter ripples through the bar. I wink at a pretty blonde by the bar who blushes and looks away, then I turn my focus to the board. Lining up the first shot, I make an exaggerated show of measuring the distance, then, with a flick of my wrist, I let it fly. Thwack. Dead center of the 20.
“See that?” I say without looking back at Knox. “That’s called finesse. You should try it sometime.”
“Just throw the damn darts, East,” he growls.
I throw the next two in quick succession, both landing in the triple-20. The crowd lets out a low whistle. I turn, giving a dramatic, sweeping bow. The performance is easy. The laughter is a drug. It’s the silence that’s killing me. In the brief pause as I walk to the board to retrieve my darts, the smile slips. My hand instinctively brushes the phone in my pocket. A jolt of pure cold dread goes through me.
Where is she? Is she okay? What the hell is happening in that house?
Then I turn back, and the mask is back in place. “Your turn, big guy,” I say, clapping Knox on the shoulder as I pass. “Try not to hit Kyle.” Kyle laughs but shifts left two steps like I trained him out of the line, eyes up. He listens. That’s worth something.
Knox grumbles, takes his stance, and throws. His darts are powerful but clumsy, scattering across the board. The guys groan.
“Oof,” I say, wincing dramatically. “James, you see that? I’ve seen better aim on a stormtrooper.”
James lets out a dry chuckle from his seat at the bar.
For the next ten minutes, I hold court. I’m laughing, talking shit, sinking two bullseyes like it’s as easy as breathing. I’m buying a round for the guys watching, charming the girls, and utterly destroying Knox. On the surface, it’s all swagger and charm, jokes bouncing off the jukebox glow. Underneath, with every beat of the music, my eyes scan the door. With every roar of laughter, my ears are straining for the sound of a text message. The performance is good, but it’s just a distraction. A flimsy shield against the thoughts of her.
I’m lining up my final throw, the winning shot, when my phone buzzes against my thigh. The room narrows to the tip of the dart, the hum of the bar dropping into a tunnel of noise.
My heart seizes, a frantic, stupid hope.
I lower the dart, pulling the phone out.
It’s a text. From Frankie.
Frankie: She’s here. At my place. She ran.
Air leaves my lungs in a rush. The frantic energy humming under my skin vanishes, and for a single, blissful second, there is only relief. It’s a wave so strong my knees almost buckle. She’s safe. She got out.
Then the cold comes.
A clean, sharp rage that crystallizes everything. The lazy grin is gone from my face. The flirtatious energy evaporates. All that’s left is purpose. The thought of them—her father, that bastard Trent—backing her into a corner until her only choice was to run, makes my vision go red at the edges.
