“Mom!” he says, skidding to a stop in front of me. “Dad says we’re getting pancakes in the morning. Can I have extra whipped cream?”
I crouch down, brushing his curls back. “You can have all the whipped cream you want, bud.”
His face lights up. “Even more than last time?”
“I don’t know, that was a lot of whipped cream,” I tease, tapping his nose.
Bash giggles. “It wasn’t that much.”
Andrew checks his watch. “We should get going, bro.”
I kiss Bash’s forehead. “Have fun, okay? Be good for Dad.”
“I’m always good,” he says, then hugs me so tight it almost hurts.
I close my eyes, holding on just a little longer.
After I pry myself away, Bash pulls his oversized headphones from his bag, over his ears, and plugs them into his tablet. The faint sound of some over-the-top YouTuber filters through, ensuring he’s safely distracted from any impending adult nonsense.Smart kid.
And right on cue…
“Hey, Andy,” Demi says sweetly. “Do me a favor and try not to introduce him to a new stepmom this weekend. I know you live to keep the girlfriend rotation on shuffle, but maybe let the kid have some consistency, yeah?”
Andrew exhales through his nose, visibly irritated. “Nice to see you too, Demi.”
She gasps dramatically. “Oh, I bet it is nice—when’s the last time someone was genuinely happy to see you? That reminds me, how is your latest mid-life crisis? Still stalking Sable’s socials, or has she finally figured out how to type your name in a search bar and regret her entire life?”
Andrew clenches his jaw, a muscle twitching near his temple. He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he just shakes his head and turns toward the door.
Bash, blissfully unaware under his noise-canceling cocoon, waves as he heads out.
Once they’re gone, I turn to Demi, who looks downright smug.
“You feel better?” I ask.
“Infinitely,” she says. “Now, let’s get you out of these dusty-ass clothes and into something that screams ‘yes, I am thriving, and no, I won’t be answering any bullshit comments.’”
I grab my bag with the determination of a woman on a mission. If Andrew’s tragic taste in women is the most exciting thing happening in my life, I officially need stronger cocktails and worse decisions.
The nightmare about owning a bar like Ruin's End isn’t the drunks. It’s not even the entitled pricks who think money buys respect. No, it’s the ones who sidle up asking for “favors.”
Not the kind I’m known to do: helping a woman get her kid out of a bad situation, finding someone a place to sleep for the night, making sure someone walks away from a fight they didn’t start. I’m talking about the other kind. The kind that doesn’t get paid in cash. The kind that leaves your conscience soaked in blood and crawling in filth.
They smile like asking me to clean up their mess is the same as handing over a tip for good whiskey. That’s the nightmare.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, as I stare down the man sitting in front of me. For a guy wrapped in an expensive suit, wearing a watch that costs more than my truck, he’s twitchy. I didn’t need to look at him for an extra beat to be convinced his bank account compensates for his missing spine. He probably calls the cops on teenagers for skateboarding near his Tesla but still tells people he’s “laid-back.”
Every strand of hair is drenched in industrial-strength gel. Everything about him feels poised to implode at the slightest gust of wind.
I’d bet good money he practiced this whole conversation in the mirror before walking up to me.
And yet, despite all that preparation, he still looks ready to piss himself.
“Spit it out,” I say, bored already.
He clears his throat, straightens his tie—a nervous tic, since the damn thing’s already straight as a ruler. “I wanted to… discuss an opportunity with you.”
There it is. The phrase that always means one of two things: a pyramid scheme or some rich guy trying to buy something that isn’t for sale.
