Ice clinks as I set my glass down. Condensation beads along the rim before Ghost wipes it away with one sweep of his towel. Everything about him is controlled. Contained.
I envy it.
His attention settles on me even as he readies the bar for opening, noting the tightness around my eyes, the tension in my shoulders, the curl of my left hand on the counter. He never asks what happened, but he’s there if I need an ear to listen.
My breath falls into rhythm with his polishing, each slow circle turning the cloudy glass clear. The repetition soothes something raw. One glass, then another, his quiet ritual drowning out the noise in my head.
The quieting down kit stops screaming for attention, its pull lessening in this twilight space where the worst parts of me are known and accepted.
I drain the last of the water, cold sliding down my chest, tempering the adrenaline still humming from the instructor’s hands on me. Ghost takes the empty glass, refills it, and sets it before me again in a silent instruction to stay.
My shoulders loosen by degrees. The saxophone swells before it fades, letting the piano take over, notes winding through empty tables where, later, people will come seeking connection or escape.
The door to the back room swings open on well-oiled hinges, spilling a rectangle of harsh light across the polished floor. Rowan steps through, wiping blood from his knuckles with a small white towel. His movements are unhurried as he crosses to the bar.
“Hey.” He tosses the stained cloth beneath the counter without a trace of exertion, despite the raw, red state of his hands. “You’re in early.”
I lift my glass in response, ice cubes shifting.
Rowan slides onto a stool beside mine, leaving one empty between us. His crisp white shirt remains spotless despite whatever transpired in the back room.
Without being asked, Ghost sets a tumbler ofamber liquid before Rowan, the glass meeting the wood with a soft clink.
I motion toward his knuckles. “Problem solved?”
“For now.” Rowan flexes his fingers, the skin stretching tight over bruised bone. “Some people need physical reminders about payment schedules.” His mouth curves into a cold smile. “He’ll remember next time.”
I recognize the calm satisfaction of a man who’s found purpose in controlled violence. It reflects what I see in the mirror on good days, when the cutting stays in its case, and the rage finds productive outlets instead.
“In the market for work tonight?” Rowan lifts his drink. “Got a situation that needs handling.”
The phrasing is vague on purpose. In the Blue Note, words like “collection” and “enforcement” hover unspoken in the air, understood by those who need to understand.
“I can swing by after my shift at the club,” I reply.
Foundation won’t need me past ten, and the night stretches on long after I clock out. Hours I’d rather fill with action than fighting the demons in my head.
“It won’t be anything complicated.” Rowan sips his drink, his posture relaxed. “Just a statement about territorial boundaries.”
I nod, understanding the subtext. Some rival business is venturing where they shouldn’t, and a message needs to be delivered.
“Address?” I ask, finishing my water.
“I’ll text you.” He sets his glass down, turning it between his fingers.
Ghost moves between us, refilling my water and adding a splash to Rowan’s depleted whiskey. His presence flows like smoke, there and not there at the same time. He pretends not to listen while missing nothing.
“Heard about what went down at Crane’s gym,” Rowan says. “Instructor got a little handsy?”
My fingers tighten around the glass. News travels fast in our circles. “You got spies there now?”
“Everywhere, Saint.” Rowan’s expression darkens. “Want me to break some fingers?”
His protectiveness reminds me of why I trust him. Rowan operates in shades of gray, but his loyalty runs bone-deep once earned.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, not wanting to owe Rowan when Micah will have the place shut down by dinner. “Not worth your time.”
“Man puts his hands on one of mine, it’s always worth my time,” Rowan corrects.
