Then he laughs.
“It’s not time,” he says. “Have some patience, Gator. Sit back, relax, fuck the bartender a few more times.”
Something hot snaps behind my ribs. “What the fuck do you mean, it’s not time?”
His voice drops, gets so cold the phone feels frigid against my ear. “You’re getting brave. That’s cute. And stupid if you want your sister to keep breathing.”
I force air into my lungs. Slow. Controlled. I imagine I’m somewhere where things make sense — like working on the roof by the clubhouse, or sitting in a bar with a full pint in front of me, or in an insane asylum staffed by the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.
“Listen, Midnight, I did what you asked,” I say, and I can hear the strain in my voice. “I’m not trying to be brave, not trying topiss you off. We both know you’ve got the power here. I just want to get June back, okay?”
“You don’t get to decide a damn thing,” he replies. “You get your sister back when I decide the time’s right, and so far, it ain’t fucking right.”
“I gave you everything I could without getting caught,” I say. “What more do you want from me?”
“Watch your tone, Gator. Do you really want to throw away everything you’ve worked so hard for? Because it sounds to me like you do. It sounds to me like you want to listen while I shove my pistol up your sister’s cunt and pull the fucking trigger. Is that what you want?”
The room tilts. My vision goes sharp at the edges, like my body is bracing for impact. I press my forearm to my knee so hard it hurts, trying to anchor myself to something that isn’t rage.
“You touch her,” I say, and my voice sounds like gravel scraping its way up my throat, “and I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Midnight interrupts, his voice a chilling mix of threatening and amused. “You’ll come play hero? You’ll come swinging like you’re the only man who’s ever loved someone?”
A small sound in the background — metal clinking, maybe a lighter.
“We’re keeping her close, Gator. Close enough that if you fuck up, no matter where you are, and what you’re doing, I can put a gun to her head and pull the trigger and you’ll be able to hear her skull pop open. Close enough that I can carve her fucking chest open and leave her still-warm heart on your doorstep like a fucking Christmas present.”
“Don’t. Midnight, don’t,” I rasp.
He hums like he’s thinking it over. “Then do what you’re told. Wait. Have some fucking patience, you goddamn child.”
My tongue feels thick. I can taste bile. All I can see is June at twelve, hair in messy braids, glaring at me because I wouldn’t let her ride her bike without a helmet. June at seventeen, crying on the kitchen floor because her boyfriend broke up with her before homecoming and I had to learn how to play a parent comforting their kid through their first relationship heartbreak. She’s depended on me for so long, for so long I’ve been all she’s got, and no matter what the cost has been — costs paid because of choices she made before she knew what they’d cost her — I’ve been there to pay it all as the only family she has left. As her brother, as someone learning, trying, and often failing, to be a good guardian.
I’ll pay whatever it takes.
“How much longer until this is over?”
“It’ll all be over tomorrow.” A pause.Tomorrow? I don't know what that means. I'm not sure I want to.Midnight’s voice grows harder. “Now, listen up. Here’s what you’re going to do next.”
“There’s more?”
“You think that just because you’ve given me a little something that I’m done with you? No, this isn’t fucking over until I’m fully satisfied. So shut your fucking mouth and pay attention. You’re going to stop moping. You’re going to stop acting like you’re some fucking woe-is-me bitch. You’re going to be useful.”
I swallow, forcing my voice steady. “How?”
“By being where I need you, when I need you. By following orders like the obedient little bitch that you are. Tomorrow, you’re going to get a message. You’re going to follow it. You’re going to do exactly what it says. No hero shit. No surprises. No thinking you can outsmart me.”
“And June?”
“If you behave, and if you survive, you might get her back with all her pieces still attached.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Molly
I keep pouring drinks like my hands don’t know my life is on fire.
The Noble Fir is emphatic — leather and laughter and clinking glass — and it booms in my ears, along with the sound of Mayhem yelling about a bad poker hand, Tank looming like a thundercloud, Diesel on a flirtatious phone call with Samantha, Riley weaving between tables with trays balanced like she was born with them and only pausing to occasionally stop and flirt a little with Breaker. Normal chaos. Familiar chaos. The chaos that usually calms me, because when I sit at the center of it, I feel in control. It swirls around me, but I direct it, I run it, with drink orders, with shouts, with a simple look — I keep it in line.
