Chapter One
Molly
“Last call — pick a poison, tip your waitress and your bartender, and if you spill on my floor, you better say your last rites because I will smother you with my dish rag and leave your body in a drainage ditch.”
I close The Noble Fir the same way every night: with the efficiency of a drill sergeant, no deviation tolerated. Last call is gospel. There are no exceptions, no matter how many dead-eyed loggers or leather-jacketed regulars beg for one more round. And once they stagger out into the parking lot, I run the rest of my ritual: lock the doors behind the last straggler, rinse the sticky glasses, dump the dregs, and tally the till without error. I do it all at twice the pace of any man who’s ever tried to show me ‘the right way,’ my movements crisp and almost spiteful, because I know the cost of softness in this world. The barstools go up in a row, legs crossed like a funeral procession, and I leave the floor gleaming for tomorrow’s hangovers.
The club expects perfection; I deliver it. Not just because I love them, but because I owe nothing less to myself.
The only moment I allow for vanity is in the cramped, flickering bar bathroom, where I scrub my hands raw and apply lipstick in the warped mirror. It’s a new habit, and not one I’m proud of, but something I can’t help. Even though I don’t need the color — nobody’s here to impress — I like the way the ritual staves off fatigue. The tube label has been rubbed to oblivionfrom living in my apron pocket, but I’d know it on sight even without the label. Red Rebellion: the shade I wore the night I almost did something reckless with Evan Wilder. The night I nearly became the girl I said I’d never be: foolish, open, wanting.
I trace my lips, remembering how Evan’s gaze had lingered on my mouth like it was the answer to a question he was scared to ask.
That was years ago, and I was supposed to have outgrown the weakness. I haven’t, not really.
I shove the memory back where it belongs and head home with the same two goals I’ve been clinging to for months: burn off the shift, and study until my eyes blur. Accounting exam. Business degree. A future that isn’t poured into somebody else’s glass. If I don’t keep moving, I get stuck.
And I’m done being stuck.
My apartment building is a 1970s brick rectangle, three stories, always too warm in the halls and too cold in my unit. I swipe my keycard and pass the mailboxes, ignoring the way the lobby’s cheap tile echoes my footfalls. The only light on this floor bleeds from the fitness room — really more a glorified closet with a treadmill, a stationary bike, and a weights rack for show. I almost skip it, but my muscles ache and my heart is jittery, so I push open the door, bracing for fluorescent purgatory — and there he is.
Evan.
Notnew tenantEvan.
Nothot guy next doorEvan, even though he is both those things in a way that makes me feel both flushed and uncomfortable. But he’s alsomyEvan. Or was. The one I haven’t thought about in years, except for the nights I lie awake and remember how his hands looked twined in mine while he kissed me like I was the only thing in life that mattered.
Until he moved in about a week ago and feelings I swore I'd never feel again started crawling back up through the scar tissue like they'd never left.
He’s at the squat rack, barbell across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His arms are thicker than I remember and still cut with the same ropey tension, and the shirt clings just enough to show he’s kept his discipline. He sets the bar down, wipes his brow, and spots me instantly in the mirror. His face doesn’t change, not a flicker, but when he turns, I see the shock of recognition in his eyes, and for a second I feel eighteen again — messy hair, battered Doc Martens, and the goddamn red lipstick still on my mouth like a dare.
The gym feels suddenly small, the oxygen heavy.
My pulse trips. My stomach drops. I learned a long time ago what happens when I get attached to men with danger in their orbit.
No bikers. No trouble. No feelings.
That’s the rule. That’s how I stay alive.
His eyes lift — and the second they land on my mouth, something in his face changes. Not surprise. Recognition. Like he sees the lipstick and suddenly we’re eighteen again, in a dim hallway with music thumping through the walls, my back against the paint-chipped door and his voice in my ear, low and careful:You sure, Molly?
I swallow hard. I hate that I remember every detail. I hate that my body remembers, too.
“Red suits you,” he says, quiet.
My brain locks up. A compliment is not something I know what to do with — especially not one delivered that quietly, as if he already knew where to aim. Even though I picked this damn lipstick for him to notice, so maybe he’d see what he missed out on all those years ago when he suddenly disappeared and took my broken heart with him. But now that he’s actually noticedme, I have no idea in hell what to do with it; I feel like a dog that’s finally caught up to the car it’s been chasing.
I blink. Then my mouth decides to betray me.
“Uh… thanks. It’s… it’s on my face.”
God. Kill me.
His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Good observation.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I reach for my usual weapon—sarcasm—except it comes out… weird.
“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter, and it sounds less like a threat and more like I’m negotiating with my own pulse.
