I count to thirty after the diner door swings shut behind them. The distillery's brick exterior blurs as I stride back, shouldering past a group of laughing tourists. Inside, I spot him immediately—red golf shirt, wedding ring catching the light as he weaves toward the men's room. My boots make no sound on the sticky floor. The bathroom door gives with a satisfying crack against the wall. He's at the sink, water running, when our eyes meet in the mirror. His pupils contract to pinpoints. I shift my weight to block the exit, fingers flexing at my sides, watching his gaze dart toward the narrow window above the urinals.
His eyes widen in the mirror, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. “What?”
“You married?” I nod at his left hand gripping the sink's edge.
“Yeah, so?” The water keeps running.
“Just wondering which hand you grabbed my girl with.” I step closer. The bathroom stinks of piss and cheap cologne.
His knuckles whiten against porcelain. “Look, man?—”
The crack echoes off the tile walls, followed by a high, thin sound like air escaping a balloon. His wrist bends at an angle nature never intended. He slides to his knees, cradling the injury against his chest, mouth working silently.
I straighten and check my reflection. “Next time, keep them to yourself.”
The door swings shut behind me, cutting off his whimpers. Outside, the night air tastes clean.
Bishop materializes beside me, his breath fogging in the night air. “What the fuck was that?” The muscle in his jaw twitches twice.
“A correction.”
“Jesus Christ.” His eyes dart back toward the bar's entrance where a small crowd has gathered. Someone's shouting about calling an ambulance. Bishop grabs my elbow, yanking me across the street against the light. “You broke his fingers.”
“Wrist,” I correct.
He stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing a couple to swerve around us. “That's worse, asshole.”
My lips curl upward. The memory of the man's face—that perfect moment when pain replaced entitlement—warms me better than whiskey.
Bishop's fingers rake through his hair, leaving it standing up. “If he goes to the cops, everything we’ve set up, this whole fucking job is done.”
“Funny how you ended up back at the diner. Admit it: she’s growing on you.” It’s a taunt.
He scoffs. “Like black fucking mold.”
I laugh and clap a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off immediately and stalks inside the diner.
It’s okay he can’t admit it yet.
42
BELLAMY
The room is toosmall for three people who refuse to relax.
The bed takes up most of it—full-sized at best, pressed against one wall beneath a window that looks out on nothing but scrub and darkness. The mattress sags slightly in the middle, like it’s already given up on pretending it can support more than one body. The headboard creaks if you breathe too hard. The sheets smell like detergent and dust and the faintest trace of someone else’s cologne, old and generic.
Across the room, the recliner looks worse for wear. The fabric is threadbare at the arms; the footrest jammed at a stubborn angle that refuses to fully lock into place. Bishop dragged it closer to the wall without comment, like claiming territory, then sat down and immediately looked irritated that gravity still applied to him.
My white noise machine hums from the outlet near the dresser. I can’t sleep without it, so I always travel with one. Ocean sounds tonight. Waves that don’t belong to this part of the world. They don’t completely drown out the desert—wind whispering against the window, the building settling with small, traitorous pops.
But it’s enough to ease my nerves, to provide a buffer.
Rafe sits on the bed, his back pressed to the headboard, sprawled out in a way that feels deliberate, contained. Like he knows exactly how much of the room is his and isn’t interested in claiming more.
When I come back out, he glances up. Just once. His gaze is steady, calm, unintrusive.
“Bathroom’s yours,” I murmur to them.
