I hate that my mouth twitches.
I look toward the office door, the one Claire disappears into whenever she needs a second away from the testosterone circus. Rabid’s ol’ lady isn’t officially “in charge” of anything here, but everyone treats her like she is — because she is; Claire’s the woman who can quiet a room with a glance and make hardened men feel like toddlers with sticky hands.
I hesitate and hate that uncertain sensation roiling my chest. If I ask her for this…
If I bring Evan into their world…
I’m putting a target on him. This life is more dangerous than he realizes, and even being in the orbit of the Twisted Devils brings consequences.
But then I picture June somewhere struggling, and Evan’s voice goes softer in my head.
Always.
I set down the bottle with a hard clack.
“Alright,” I mutter. “Fuck it. Fine.”
I wipe my hands on a bar towel, the motion more force than necessary, exorcising nervous energy, and square my shoulders as if I’m about to walk into a courtroom instead of a converted office suite at the back of the Noble Fir. The door is cracked. I tap twice, knuckle to wood, not quite polite. Two sharp raps to telegraph I’m not afraid of the person on the other side, even though that’s a lie.
“Come in,” Claire calls, calm as ever. Her voice is always like that: leveled, a precise ratio of warmth and threat, the way a good whiskey burns in the chest but never tips you into oblivion.
I step in, and the air feels denser. Claire’s at the desk, posture crisp, her hair roped back in some impossible bun she canconstruct with one hand while reading the Wall Street Journal with the other. She’s reviewing a ledger, pen poised. The room smells faintly of coffee and leather.
“We need to talk.”
Claire’s mouth curves. “You look like you’re about to punch somebody.”
“That’s… not inaccurate.”
She sets the pen down, folds her hands. “Talk to me, Molly.”
I hesitate, which is stupid, because I didn’t come in here to be coy. I came in here because I’m a moron with feelings.
“I need to ask you for a favor.”
Claire’s eyes sharpen instantly. Not unkind. Just alert. “Okay. So ask.”
The sentence is simple, but it hits my nerves anyway; I don’t ask for favors; I don’t ask for help; I don’t ask for anything that can be used against me later.
I hate this. I hate every millisecond of it.
My throat feels tight, so I swallow. “It’s… about someone I know.”
“Someone you know,” she echoes, disassembling the phrase as if it’s a grenade. “Keep going.”
“There’s a guy,” I say, and cringe at my lack of subtlety.
“A guy,” she repeats, flat, her expression giving nothing away.
I glare at her, not because I’m actually angry, but because I need a shield. “Don’t make that face at me.”
She doesn’t blink. “What face?”
“The one where you’re about to make a joke about my poor taste in men.”
Claire does smile then, but it doesn’t touch her eyes, which remain sharp and focused. “Molly, who is it?”
I exhale hard through my nose. “His name’s Evan.”
