When it’s over, the girl rolls off me and reaches for her clothes without a word. Efficient. Professional. No expectations. That’s why this works. She kisses my cheek on the way out like we’re both in on the joke.
“See you around, Oaks.”
“Yeah,” I say, already pulling my boots back on.
The door clicks shut. The room goes quiet. And I feel worse than I did before. I sit there on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees, jaw locked tight, and there’s no satisfaction, no edge taken off, just a hollow place where something used to be easy.
I used to be able to split myself clean in two. Club first. Marriage for optics. Women for distraction. No bleed-through. No guilt that stuck.
Now I can’t even fuck without thinking about a girl who looked at me like I mattered.
I head back downstairs, grab another drink, and catch Bethany’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She’s watching me now.
Good. Let her.
She corners me near the pool table like she’s been counting down the seconds. “So,” she says lightly, eyes flicking toward the staircase, “have fun?”
I don’t answer.
She smiles anyway. “You always did prefer easy.”
I lean in close enough that only she can hear me. “You wanna start something tonight, or you wanna keep pretending we’re married for appearances?”
Her smile tightens. “Careful.”
“Fuck careful,” I mutter. “You wanted a ring, Beth. You got one. Don’t act surprised when I don’t play house.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re sloppy lately.”
That gives me pause. “Meaning?” I ask.
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Meaning people notice when you hover. When you warn. When you don’t finish the job.”
My blood goes cold. “You talking about Brittany?” I ask quietly.
Bethany’s mouth curves. “Look at you. Said her name like it matters.”
I grab her wrist, not hard, just enough to remind her who she’s dealing with. “You leave her out of whatever the fuck this is.”
She laughs, sharp and ugly. “Or what? You gonna choose her?”
“I ain’t choosing anybody.”
“That’s the problem,” she snaps. “You never do. You just break things and call it loyalty.”
The words land harder than I expect because they’re close enough to true to sting. She leans in, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “Pearly Gates has been asking questions.”
My head snaps up. “About what?”
“About a girl,” she says sweetly. “Guess which one.”
The noise of the room fades for a second. Pearly Gates doesn’t ask questions unless they’re already moving pieces.
“Who’s asking?” I demand.
“Does it matter?” she says. “They know she was at the Lockup. They know you walked her upstairs.”
I get the implication. The reverend has been trying to frame us for disappearances for years. Girls from Official come here and party then they’re in the paper, missing. “How the fuck would they know that?”
