I raise the bottle, tipping it toward him like a toast. “We grieve differently. I shoot. He judges. Balance.”
Kyle grins, relieved the conversation is back on solid ground. “Should’ve known.”
“Damn right you should’ve.”
My restlessness returns, the itch under my skin too strong to ignore. I’m scanning the room, my eyes restless, when they land on her. A brunette near the jukebox wearing a tight tank top with her mouth around a straw like she’s making a promise. She sees me looking and doesn’t flinch. Bold. Curious. Just reckless enough.
Perfect. An easy distraction. An escape hatch. I can do this. I can be gone before Darla even gets here. Leaving Kyle and my half-empty beer, I push through the crowd. When I’m feeling the pressure, I do what I always do. I look for something easier.
I slide up to the brunette at the jukebox, lean an elbow against it, and flash her the grin. The one that works every time. “Careful,” I tell her. “Staring at me like that, you’re gonna make me think you’re trouble.”
She laughs, rolling her straw between her fingers. “What if I am?”
“Then I’m a public service,” I say, hand over my chest like I’m swearing an oath. “Taking trouble off the streets one beautiful woman at a time.”
She shakes her head, amused. The pattern is easy. I can already taste her—cheap lipstick and whiskey—can already feel the temporary, hollow victory of burying myself in a stranger.
“Another one, East?” Knox’s voice is a dry rumble as he walks past. “You’re gonna run out of girls in this town.”
I just wink at him over the brunette’s shoulder. I put my arm around her, my fingers finding the warm, bare skin of her waist. It’s a done deal. “Come on,” I murmur, my voice a low purr. “Let’s get out of here.”
She smiles, ready and willing. We walk toward the door, her hip brushing against mine. An easy escape.
Then the clubhouse door swings open. The sound is a dull creak of old hinges, but it hits my ears like a gunshot, making the world narrow. All the noise of the bar—the music, the laughter, the shouting—fades to a distant buzz. The slice of cool night air that cuts through the smoke feels like a physical thing. Frankie breezes in first, a blur of leather and a wicked grin.
After Frankie, I see her.
The air punches out of my lungs. My feet stop moving. The brunette at my side says something, her voice a muffled,meaningless sound, but I don’t hear her. All I see is Darla. She pauses just inside the doorway, a silhouette against the darkness, her expression unreadable as her eyes scan the room like a battlefield. She looks the same and nothing like she used to. The soft edges of the high school girl are gone, replaced by the stunning, sharp lines of a woman carved from marble and ice. Her hair is a severe, beautiful white that looks like it would be cold to the touch.
She is a dare. And I’ve taken it before.
Then she turns—barely. Just enough to catch Malachi in her line of sight. And something in my chest yanks tight. A hot, ugly knot of jealousy.She’s not yours. Never was. She belonged to him. Losing her once wrecked me. Watching her move on might finish the job.
The brunette beside me says my name, a questioning note in her voice. My hand, which had been resting on her waist, goes slack. I gently remove my arm, my eyes never leaving Darla. “Sorry,” I mutter, my voice rough. “Something just came up.”
I leave her standing there, a forgotten distraction. I don’t want to care. But my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
Darla shifts, cutting through the crowd in a straight line toward Malachi. Calculated. Controlled. She always knew how to make silence loud. It hits me like a bruise I thought had healed. I tried. God, I tried to honor Declan’s last words, the promise he rasped out while my hands were slick with his blood. But she built a wall so high I couldn’t breach it. Now she’s here, and she’s tilting her head at someone else.
Her laugh cuts through the noise. Sharp. Brittle. It scrapes down my spine.
For a moment, I close my eyes, my hand making a fist. I can’t be here. I can’t watch this.
I turn and push my way through the crowd, heading for the back door. The cool night air hits me, but it doesn’t help. Myhands are shaking as I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. It’s a habit I picked up after, something to do with my hands, something to burn. I light it, the flare of the match illuminating the darkness. The flare burns too brightly, too close. I hold it there a second longer than I should, like maybe the fire can cauterize something in me. I take a deep drag, the smoke a familiar, acrid burn in my lungs.
It doesn’t help. Her face is all that I can see. All I hear is her laugh. All I can think of is the weight of a promise I’m failing to keep. I take another drag, staring out into the dark alley, the cigarette a burning pinpoint of light in the overwhelming darkness. For one more night, I try to believe I don’t give a damn. The smoke fades, but the silence stays. It always does.
Chapter 3
Darla
TheairintheOutsiders’ clubhouse is a living thing—thick with the ghosts of spilled whiskey, worn leather, and the sweat that comes from fighting or fucking. The low thrum of the bass isn’t just a sound; it’s a physical vibration that works its way up through the soles of my boots, humming against my bones. It’s not a place you just stand in; you wear it. I pull it around myself like a borrowed coat, my arms crossed tight over my chest, my nails digging into my skin as I try to master the art of looking like I belong on a stage I never asked to walk onto.
Frankie is a flame in the dark beside me, her presence an easy, smoky warmth. “You good?” she murmurs, her voice a low counterpoint to the thumping music.
I give a sharp, practiced nod, a gesture I perfected years ago for my father’s dinner parties. “Just taking it in.”
The lie tastes like metal on my tongue. I’m not taking it in; I’m cataloging escape routes. The back door past the bar, the main entrance, the narrow hallway that probably leads to a bathroom. Yet, there’s a feral pulse to the chaos here, a wild, jagged rhythm that whispers of a life lived without permission. For a breath, it feels like oxygen, a heady rush that makes my lungs expand. Then the feeling is gone, and I’m just a girl in the wrong room, my heart hammering a frantic, trapped rhythm against my ribs.
