“Thought so,” Bryant says dryly, clearly amused. “Given that Dillinger’s business dealings apparently crossed paths with Stauder’s illegal ventures—fights, gambling, all the usual—figured I’d check in with someone who might know the players.”
Hex’s smile spreads, but it’s unsettling in its ease. “Can’t say I’ve been keeping tabs on Ned’s social calendar—” He pauses, just long enough to make the silence stretch. “But you’re welcome to ask him yourself.”
Bryant’s eyes sharpen, hand pulling out a business card from his pocket. “Funny you say that. We tried, but Stauder’s memory gets awful fuzzy around details like this. Since Dillinger stopped here, and you have your own history with that crowd, I thought, it’d be wise to ask about your whereabouts Sunday.”
Hex doesn’t hesitate. “We were on a date.”
Bryant tilts his head, unimpressed.
Hex smirks, knowing he’s covered. “About twenty-five comments on social media posts with pictures from that day will confirm it.”
I clear my throat, still struggling to keep the heat out of my face, the bourbon and orgasm not helping the effort. “It’s true,” I add quickly. “He was with me. I can show you my social posts. They have locations and time stamps.”
Bryant holds my gaze a second longer than I’m comfortable with, his expression keen and assessing.
Does he think I’m lying? That I’m just some naïve idiot covering for a man I barely know?
Worse—am I?
Finally, he nods. “Alright.” He taps his fingers against the bar, his card resting just beneath them.
“If you think of anything else—anything about his visit that day, or Stauder’s dealings with Dillinger—give me a call.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and walks out, leaving the odd encounter hanging between Hex and me.
I wait until the door clicks shut behind the detective before letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The tension unspools in frayed strands, coiling tight again just beneath my skin. I don’t need to look at Hex to feel the pressure building, radiating off him. I feel I’ve just been caught in the middle of a storm brewing beneath that calm exterior.
Maybe I’m standing in the eye right now.
But what the hell happens when I step out and right into its fury?
I grab a napkin—because that feels like the normal thing to do—and start wiping at a spot on the bar that definitely won’t make a dent in the mess. My brain is caught somewhere betweenwhat the actual fuckandplay it cool, Sable.
Hex doesn’t say anything, just patiently watches me, which somehow makes it worse.
I shift a glass. Move a plate. Straighten a bottle that’s perfectly aligned with the containers.
Act casual. Keep it together.Don’t let him know you’re mentally falling through the goddamn floor.
“So,” I say, voice a little too high, “that was… uh, interesting.”
Hex hums in agreement, offering nothing more.
I nod—because nodding seems like the right move—and adjust another glass two inches to the left.
“And when he asked about your whereabouts Sunday…” I glance at him, forcing my expression into something that probably doesn’t look as normal as I want it to. “That wasn’t… a weirdly tense moment for you at all?”
Hex leans against the bar, arms crossed. “Not really.”
I blink at him. Wait. Then—because I’m not as cool as I want to be—I blurt out:
“That market we were at is right next to those condos the detective talked about…”
“It is.”
“Did you kill Brandon Dillinger?”
“Yes.”
