“I’m… I’m doing my best,” I mumble.
“He won’t get away with it,” he says simply. He’s taken another step toward me. Close enough that I see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. The same shade as his hair. His jaw tightens as I look up into his rugged, handsome face and realize what he means. “I’m gonna make sure the guy who hurt you?—”
“Did you find the root beer alright?” Mick asks brightly.
We’re standing so close, we stagger back the moment the door bangs open and the elderly bartender barges through.
We’re breathing hard, clearly startled. Clearly a little guilty and paranoid.
But Mick’s none the wiser as he chuckles and misses what he walked in on.
“Caught ya!” he exclaims. “Trying to raid the root beer supply, eh? Better than the whiskey, I suppose.”
My face burns. I quickly take a can of soda and mumble, “Thanks, Mick.”
I don’t dare look at Silver as I scurry out of the room.
Back at the patio table, I try to focus on Sydney and Korine’s conversation but my eyes keep finding Silver.
He’s returned as well, talking with Tom Cutler, but I catch him looking my way too. Each time our eyes meet, the pull gets stronger.
It’s confusing and wrong and probably some trauma response, but it’s also the only thing making me feel seen.
Reminding me someone notices. Someone cares.
My phone vibrates with another call from an unknown number. Probably Shay from another phone. I let it go to voicemail.
The notification pops up immediately. Against my better judgment, I sigh and push play, plugging my other ear against Ozzie’s trap music.
“Hello, Ms. Youngblood, this is Patricia from Pulsboro 24-Hour Clinic calling about your recent visit.”
My stomach drops. The tests came back negative.
What now? Was that a mistake?
“We’re reaching out to let you know about something additional the team found in your blood and urine samples. It’s standard procedure to test for substances when we have patients who believe they’ve been sexually assaulted. Your toxicology report showed traces of ketamine. We thought you should know, as this explains the memory loss and disorientation you’ve said you experienced. Please call us back at your earliest convenience to discuss this finding and your options moving forward.”
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering onto the table.
Ketamine?
12
SILVER
“Jack, got a second?”
Tom’s cut me off on my way back to Tito. The two of us had been talking before I’d gone inside to check on Solana. Now that I’ve returned to the patio, it’s as if Tom was biding his time. He was waiting and watching all along.
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. Doing my best to keep my expression neutral despite the fact I’d rather talk to almost anybody else at this party.
We move to the side of the patio, away from the main crowd but still visible enough that everyone can see us talking.
Tom’s wearing his old cut like armor—creased and faded leather over a sleeveless black shirt showing off his Steel Kings ink covering both arms. The skull with his crown grins from his left arm. The club motto wraps around his right bicep in Old English script:
Kings Live Forever
The motto many of us have inked on our body somewhere, including me.
