I stare into my drink. “Might be easier that way.”
“Might be.” Jade slides off his stool and drops some cash on the bar to cover his drink. “Whatever shit went down with you and Gabe, Micah doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage. Call him before he puts his life at risk to come look for you himself.”
“I will.”
“And Saint?” Jade pauses next to my stool. “Watch your back better. The way you’re going rightnow, you’re just asking for someone to collect that bounty.”
As he walks away, I signal Ghost for another refill to drown out the truth that revenge is a bottomless pit that consumes everything without ever being filled.
I drop my keys on my kitchen counter, the clatter echoing through the empty apartment. My jacket follows, tossed over the back of the couch.
In the bedroom, the evidence of him remains. The missing sheet from my bed that I haven’t bothered to replace. The pillow with his cologne still lingering on it, fading but present enough to catch me off guard when I turn over in the night.
I pull my phone from my pocket to find six missed calls from Micah over the past three days, two voicemails I haven’t listened to, and a string of increasingly worried texts.
Micah
Call me back.
Saint, please.
I’m worried about you.
Are you okay?
The last one, sent hours ago.
Micah
Whatever happened, we can fix it.
Please talk to me.
My thumb hovers over the call button, but I can’t press it. Micah would forgive me the silence, the distance, maybe even ordering DNA tests on his new brother-in-law. And the certainty of that makes the call impossible.
I’m not sure, in this instance, I deserve his forgiveness.
With a shake of my head, I drop the phone onto the kitchen counter and head for the cabinet where I keep the whiskey.
A knock at my door pulls me around, though, and I cross to the door on silent footsteps to check the peephole first. A man stands on the other side, with a bicycle helmet pushed back to show his face.
I slide my hand into the lowest pocket of the hanging organizer on the back of the door, and my fingers curl around cold metal, the familiar weight settling my nerves even as my pulse kicks harder.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery for Saint,” the man calls back.
“From who?” I demand.
“Ghost.”
I keep the gun low and out of sight as I undo the deadbolt, the click loudly. The chain stays as I crack the door far enough to see him.
He extends a sealed envelope through the gap. “As requested.”
My throat tightens as I take it, the file thinner than I thought it would be.
Without waiting for acknowledgment, the man turns and walks away, his footsteps fading down the hall.
