“Honestly? I think I did it because I hate my father too. But I’ve been stupidly trying to get his attention ever since.” The confession is a fresh wave of shame. I’m laying all my pathetic cards on the table for her to see.
“Then I saw you blow him off last night, and it kind of woke me up. And now? Seeing him here tonight? It just… solidified everything. I don’t actually like him. Not really. I sure as hell don’t want to be desperate for someone who doesn’t want me back.” The words keep tumbling out, a messy, unstoppable cascade. I’ve just handed her every weapon she could ever need to destroy me, and I can’t seem to stop.
Candace nods slowly, her expression unreadable. “Then go find someone who doesn’t make you feel that way. You’re worth more than that.”
The words are simple, the kind you see on a coffee mug. But no one has ever said them to me. Not like that. Not when I felt this worthless. They land with the force of a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs while leaving something raw and aching in its place.
I haven’t been chasing Malachi. I’ve been chasing a ghost. A boy who used to look at me like I was the only person in the room. Ever since that night, East won’t even meet my eyes. Like he can’t stand to look at anyone who was there, who saw what he lost. Like I’m just a reminder of the pieces of himself he had to bury. And I’ve been twisting myself into knots, hoping for a single glance.
“I guess we both know what it’s like to live in someone else’s shadow,” I say, the realization straightening my spine. My smile, after ages, feels real. “Thanks. I think I will.”
“I’m heading to Frankie’s tattoo shop tonight. Want to come? Once I can escape my dad’s ever-watchful eye,” I add, offering an impulsive, fragile bridge. Frankie doesn’t even need an explanation—she’ll already know why I need the ink, the noise, the distraction. I expect her to laugh. To say no.
Candace considers me. “I’m in. Mind if I bring a friend?”
“Of course! I’ll let Frankie know. See you later.” I give her a wave, then step back into the hallway. My father is still occupied. I keep my head high as I walk past, but something inside me feels different. Unlatched. Not fixed. Just cracked open enough to let a little light in.
Chapter 5
East
Thenumbersonthescreen blur into a meaningless grid. Receipts, fuel costs, bar take—it’s all just noise. My office in the back of the clubhouse is supposed to be the one place where everything adds up, a sanctuary of cold, hard logic. Numbers have order. People don’t. I can balance books, not ghosts. The math never covers what I owe. Tonight, I can’t make it past the second column. My head is full of a conversation from yesterday, the words a low, insistent hum beneath my own thoughts.
“She needs us, East,” Frankie had said, her eyes intense over the rim of her coffee cup. “I can feel it.”
Frankie and her ‘feelings.’ I’ve learned not to question them. Her intuition is supernatural bullshit I’ve learned to trust more than I trust the stock market. We were a unit once—the four of us. Me, Frankie, Declan, and Darla. Inseparable. After, when the world went quiet, Frankie and I were the ones who stayed tethered. But two months ago, Frankie got one of her hunchesand decided it was time to pull Darla back from the ghost-world she lives in, whether she liked it or not.
My phone buzzes on the desk, rattling against a stray socket wrench. A new text from Frankie lights up the screen.
Frankie: 5 mins out. Don’t be an ass.
I scrub a hand over my face, the rough scruff of my jaw scraping against my palm. It’s not a request; it’s a command. I’m the club’s treasurer. I have work to do. But Frankie’s on one of her cosmic crusades, and I know better than to get in her way.
Pushing back from the desk, I head for the door, grabbing my cut from the back of the chair. I’m not going out there for her. I’m going out there so Frankie doesn’t come in here and starts rearranging my life with her weirdly accurate intuition. A bullshit excuse, and we both know it.
I step out of the hallway, and the wall of noise and heat hits me. The room is packed, alive with the usual chaos. It’s too much. The air is too thick. I push through the crowd, heading for the back door, needing air, needing a minute before she gets here.
The alley's cool night air, thick with damp earth and the greasy scent of the neighboring diner, is a welcome shock. I lean against the rough brick wall, my hands shaking as I pull a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I light it, the flare of the match a brief, bright spark, and take a deep drag, the acrid smoke a familiar, self-destructive burn in my lungs.
Headlights cut through the darkness at the end of the alley as a car turns into the back lot. Frankie’s car. My gut clenches. I watch as she gets out, a blur of leather and a wicked grin. Then the passenger door opens.
Darla. She showed up here again. God help me.
The cigarette falls from my numb fingers, dropping to the pavement where I crush it out under my boot without thinking. For a heartbeat, I hear him, Declan’s laugh cutting through thenoise of memory. It guts me. Always does. It hits before I see her face. A hook pulls through my ribs and sets hard. A familiar, sickening punch to my gut.
She doesn’t look at me. The girl I remember would have; her eyes searched for mine across a crowded room. This woman doesn’t even seem to register my corner of the universe. The sight of her is a physical blow, a jolt of pure, raw want that hits me so hard I forget how to breathe. Fuck. She’s not just pretty anymore. She’s beautiful in a way that’s sharp and dangerous, like a shard of glass. All clean lines and a defiant posture that dares you to get closer, dares you to see if you’ll get cut. Seven years, and the ghost of the girl I knew is still there, but she’s wrapped in the armor of a woman who has seen too much. All I can think is that I want to be the one to see what’s underneath.
My feet are moving before my brain can object with an impulse I don't name. I push back inside; the heat and noise is a wall I walk right through. It's a straight line to the bar where she's headed.
Frankie is already laughing with someone near the jukebox, the laugh that says she owns the oxygen. She taps Darla’s wrist, points toward an empty stool at the corner of the bar, then disappears into the bodies like smoke. Darla is alone.
A shadow detaches from the wall by the pool tables. Nash. He moves with a quiet efficiency, not intercepting me so much as just appearing at my side, falling into step with me.
“East,” he says in a low rumble that cuts through the noise.
“Getting a drink,” I say without looking at him, my eyes locked on the back of her head.
His hand lands on my shoulder, not to stop me, but to steady me. The pressure is slight, but it’s packed with meaning. I see you. Be careful.
