Music pounds from ancient speakers mounted in the corners. The bass is low and steady—a second heartbeat vibrating through my bones. It crawls along the backs of my legs and settles beneath my skin. There’s a rhythm to the chaos—glasses clinking. Ice rattling. Boots scuffing across sticky floors. The laughter is loud and hollow. Forced. Nothing here feels real, except the heat.
Jacob keeps his hand on my lower back as we walk through to the main bar area.
Mama and Papa hang back, caught up in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Harlot. Probably talking about Papa’s latest case or Mama’s gardening tips.
We continue, passing through the mahogany arched frame, towards the noise of muffled conversation.
He steers me like livestock. Like I don’t have bones of my own. I feel the imprint of his possessiveness through the thin fabric of my dress. The pressure of ownership. It hums beneath my ribs.
Then… I hear it.
No… Ifeelit.
The frontman. He’s not just performing. He’s unravelling.
Sitting on a tall bar stool at the edge of the stage, his guitar rests across his thigh. The strap is worn, the wood scuffed. He strums it slow—each note melodic. Like he’s whispering something no one else deserves to hear. Like the sound is more confession than music.
He opens his mouth. The first note deepens into something that makes my stomach drop. He sings about leaving, about highways at midnight, about stars that don't shine the same anywhere else. His voice cracks on the high notes in a way that makes my chest ache. Syrup-sweet. Southern to the bone.
He looks like someone I could’ve only ever dreamed up. Early twenties, maybe, with messy dark hair that would fall into his eyes if he didn’t keep brushing it back. His jaw’s too angled for kindness but there’s something vulnerable in the way he holds himself—like he’s bracing for impact, even while smiling. A shadow of something bruised.
His eyes—God. Blue. So blue they sting, like the hot side of a flame. They don’t belong in a town like this. They belong in stories about shipwrecks and miracles.
He wears ripped jeans—one knee torn open—and a white T-shirt marked with sweat. It clings to his chest like a second skin. Over it, a leather vest—old and worn—with creases in the shoulders like it’s been slept in too many times. Around his neck hangs a pendant I can’t quite make out.
I swear I forget how to breathe. Something stirs low in my belly. Not lust. Not even want. It’s a kind of ache. A memory of something I never had. A pulse of something that tastes likefreedom, like a version of me I’ve only ever met in dreams.
He says the name of the next song, but I don’t hear it. The world fades away because he’s looking directly at me. Not like Jacob does. Not like the town with their prying eyes. His gaze doesn't judge, doesn't possess, doesn't leer with disdain. His eyes pierce through the layers, truly seeing me to my core.
For one impossible second, the world goes quiet.
The bar fades.
The lights dim.
It’s just him. Me. And that space between us, crackling like a live wire.
Then, I feel the yank.
Jacob’s hand clawing at my shoulder. Fingers dig deep—snapping the thread. Reality rushes back like a flood.
“You finished eyeing up the rock star, sweetie?” His laugh is rough. Mocking. Possessive. Warning. I blink. Shake my head. Try to focus. Try to pretend I wasn’t gone for a moment.
He pulls my chair out with unnecessary force. I sit, spine straight, eyes forward, my cheeks hot. I’m thankful that Officer Haywood and his wife have joined our table. Their presence is the only thing keeping Jacob’s hands in check. If we were alone, I’d already be paying for my absentmindedness.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I just... I liked the music.”
Jacob grunts.
“This new shit’s garbage. I’ll tell you right now, our kids aren’t being raised onhipster bar trash.” He gestures toward the stage. “They’ll grow up with Springsteen, not whatever the hell that whiny little bastard’s peddling.” He smirks and I nod, like a good girl.
A group of locals wave Jacob over, and he beams. The King of Nowhere. The tyrant everyone smiles at. He walks to them with his head high, chest out, badge catching the light from its spot on his holster.
Haywood follows, and his wife excuses herself to go and speak to a group of women who are lost in conversation near the dance floor.
I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder and turn faster than I should. Papa is standing there; Mama is nowhere to be seen.
“Papa, is everything okay?” I twist in my chair, voice tight. “Where’s Mama?”
