“The what?!” I slam the laptop shut so fast she nearly loses a finger.
My heart hammers against my ribs. After everything tonight—Ashley showing up, the confrontation, getting kicked out—my safe space feels more precious than ever. The last thing I need is Demi inviting actual danger into my home.
She glares. “You’re overreacting.”
“What are you going to do? Hire a fucking hitman?”
She scoffs as if I’m the one being absurd. “They’re nothitmen, they’re professional handlers. You don’t even have to know what happens to the problem… they justhandleit. I’m outsourcing.” She shrugs, as if this is the most obvious, ethical solution in the world.
I rub my temples. “You need to stop drinking.”
“You need to start.” She gasps, noticing we have no drinks. “And I will not be silenced.”
Before I can argue, she’s already on her feet, wandering back to the pantry. “I swear I saw a bottle of wine in here.”
I sigh and turn my attention back to my laptop, this time with safe intentions.
I type in the name of the bar, Ruin's End, half-wondering if Hex is somewhere laughing about what a disaster Demi and I are.
The website is sleek, moody—dark colors, grunge-style fonts, and obscure, shadowy images meant to fit some mysterious aesthetic. I scroll until I hit the About Us page.
Hector Alvarez.
The name sits there in bold lettering under an artsy, backlit photo that’s more shadow than person.Figures. Even his picture has a mysterious attitude.
I stare at the screen, remembering the way he moved through the pandemonium of tonight—quiet authority, no drama, just solving what needed solving.
Right beneath the picture is a contact form, inviting guests to reach out for inquiries. My cursor hovers over it for a long moment. What would I even say? Thanks for handling my stalker ex-side piece? Sorry my friend turned your bar into a WWE SmackDown?
Before I can spiral too far into my curiosity, Demi comes barreling back in, waving a bottle of something deeply questionable.
I squint at the label. “Where the hell did you find that?”
She lights up. “Your mom left it. Some random cocktail ingredient she swore she’d master eventually. That woman is sixty-five and thriving. I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself old again.”
Demi pours us shots into the only thing she can find—Bash’s old sippy cups. Then she lifts them, solemn and expectant, as though honoring something bigger than both of us.
“Tractors or puppies?” she asks.
I stare at her. “What?”
She gives the cups a shake, apparently convinced that’ll make things clearer. “Which one do you want? Tractors or puppies?”
I sigh and grab the one with puppies on it, thinking about how only several hours ago my biggest concern was whether my feet would survive the night. Now I’m drinking questionable liquor from my son’s sippy cups while my best friend plots revenge via the dark web.
“To disorderly conduct,” Demi declares, raising her tractor cup.
“To survival,” I counter.
Because, apparently, this is my life now.
“Heading out?” Will finishes wiping down the counter for what has to be the third time before tossing his bar towel into the bin.
The stools are flipped, the floors are swept—twice—and the last drunk stragglers have stumbled their way home or into someone else’s bed.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. “I’m going to crash upstairs tonight.”
Will nods, as if he expected that. He’s already got his keys in hand, ready to lock up. “Wild one.”
