Well, that explains why my tips suck.
Bracing myself against the ice bin, I let my fingertips graze the cold cubes. I’m burning up. I want to crawl into the ice and die. I’ve been chugging water, but it’s not helping. My feet feel like they are going to explode from my boots, and I haven’t had swollen feet from working since my first job. This is a torture I’ve never endured.
I hear keys being pulled from a pocket, farther away from the shit-faced guy I just handed a drink, and I could cry with relief. All I want to do is lock up and go home.
Home.
The place where Marshal bled out.
My chest tightens like it has every time I’ve remembered what transpired last night. I don’t know if it’s my weakened heart or if I’m actually losing my nerve, but the weight of what we’ve done is crushing me. I keep replaying what Jax said;ten to thirty-five years in prison. And that’s not even for the murder itself.
I grip my stomach, suddenly feeling like I’m going to throw up, and I barely make it to the bathroom before a gallon of water comes up. Wiping my mouth, I lean against the stall wall before sliding down onto my ass, knees up, forehead tipped back against the divider. I have to get a grip. We burned the body. No body, no crime. That’s what Caleb said.
Oh, God. I’m quoting a high schooler.
Butdidwe burn it? Every last bit? I can’t remember. I mean, I obviously remember the flames and… thesmell. But I think I blacked out toward the end. I barely remember Jax carrying me down the mountain. What was left in that pile of char? A bone? A bone with the slash of the knife Nix stabbed him with?
My vision sways, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the spinning.
Fuck. I can’t do this right now. Taking deep breaths through my nose, I gather my hair and lift it off the back of my neck. The air cools the damp sweat, and I gently open my eyes. The dizziness persists, but I push up anyway. I rinse my mouth, swipe water under my eyes, and walk back out.
I manage to wipe down the bar and take out the trash, but it’s a poor excuse for my usual work. Mustache leaves when I bump his beer, knocking it over onto his lap. Thankfully, he’s too drunk to care, and I do, in fact, call him a cab because I don’t think I can stomach another death on my hands. But not even that earns me a tip from him.
Finally alone, I lean against the still-sticky bar top as I count the night’s pull, procrastinating. The walk home isn’t that bad—maybe thirty minutes—but the idea makes my feet throb. The only thing that’s going to get me through it is the lure of a shower and my bed.
I recount three times, truly stalling or in disbelief, because I only made eighty-seven dollars.Eighty-seven dollars. On a Saturday night. Shaking my head, I stuff it into my back pocket and rip off my apron. I normally makeat leasttwo-hundred. This is going to screw us.
Before the anger can fade, and I curl up on the bar for a nap, I let it fuel me. I flick off the lights and ready my knife in my palm out of habit as I head toward the doors. Stepping into the night, my mind is busy trying to figure out how to make up the money, or what we can skip this month. as I lock the doors. I think I can get an extension on the power bill. Or did I do that in the last six months? They only allow you to do it once. I could—
I swing the knife as someone pushes off the wall beside me. It meets flesh before I even know what asshole has the audacity to try and get the jump on me. But it’s after four a.m., and I’m not taking any chances. I got cornered three years ago by a guy who thought I was sending him signals all night. But he was wearing a fucking polo. I wasnotsending him signals.
“Fucking kidding—” the guy curses, but I stomp the heel of my boot on his, cutting him off.
Whether he wants in my pants or to take my eighty-seven dollars, I don’t care. He isn’t getting either. I’ve had a shit night, and he fucked with the wrong girl. I will burn another body before I let some dickhead take what’s mine.
But my wrist is clamped before I can swing blindly into the shadows again, his grip pinching a tendon that causes the knife to fall. Without hesitation, I bring my knee up to ram him in the balls, adrenaline overriding the fatigue in my bones. I make contact, and he lets out a yelp, but doesn’t let go. I’m spun by the wrist, and he lock my back against his heaving chest.
“Stop,” he demands as I wriggle. “Kira.Stop.”
My heart stutters at the mention of my name, but I don’t stop. I jab my elbow into his side, just under their ribs given the height difference. He growls but doesn’t falter, squeezing me tighter. What is this guy made of—stone?
“If you don’t stop right now, I’m raising the price,” he hisses in my ear.
Price? Something clicks—something about five-hundred thousand dollars—and then I gasp. “Jax?!”
“Yes,” he huffs. “But I’ll be whoever you aren’t willing to stab again.”
I scoff, my relief at not being assaulted quickly morphing into annoyance.
“What are you even doing here?”
“How about a ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to stab you and take away your ability to have kids one day’?”
“Igrazedyou.” I roll my eyes, even though a pleased smile teases my lips. “You can let me go now.”
He still has me pinned against him, and the warmth of his chest searing intimately against my back has my heart beating roughly for a whole other reason than the exertion it just used. He has me so securely that I’m barely even using my own feet to hold myself up.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, his breath a warm ghost along my cheek. “I’m not convinced you didn’t know it was me.”
