He’s done this before.
My irritation twists into something worse — a tight, cold coil of dread.
I carry a tray of whiskeys around the bar, weaving between bodies, pretending I’m just doing my job, when I pass close enough to catch their words.
Bones is grinning. “So what about you, man? You ever ride?”
My steps slow without my permission. My ears perk up. My heart freezes.
Evan’s mouth curves into something that’s not a smile, not exactly. Something more amused. Something darker.
He answers in a voice I’ve never heard from him.
“I’ve been known to ride from time to time,” he says, drawl lazy, eyes glittering. The words come out with a weight I don’t understand. Not performative, not defensive — just… true.
A chill crawls up my spine; that doesn’t sound like a guy who drives a beige sedan because it’s sensible. That doesn’t sound like a contractor who keeps his head down in his honest work because he just wants to earn a few bucks to help his sister out. That sounds like a man who has done things he doesn’t talk about. A man who could walk into a room and size up every threat without breaking a sweat.
Reaper laughs under his breath. “Yeah? That so?”
Evan shrugs as if it’s nothing, like he’s not sending warning flares up my nervous system. “Depends on the day.”
Bones leans forward. “You got one?”
It happens so quickly that if I blinked, I’d miss it — Evan’s eyes slide around the table, then up, past the bottles, past the neon, straight to me. Just for a fraction of a second, but long enough that I feel it, a crackle of static under my ribs. He’s not asking me for help. He’s not warning me, either.
I see you.
My hand tightens on the tray. My face stays neutral because it has to. Because I’m good at that. Because I’ve survived by being good at that.
He looks away first, as if the moment didn’t happen.
“Nah,” he says, voice back to default. Back to the voice that answered my ‘I love you’ and made my heart beat in a way that scares me to my core. “Maybe someday.”
Reaper snorts. “You don’t strike me as a ‘maybe someday’ guy.”
Evan gives a lopsided grin. “You’d be surprised.”
I move because I have to, because I feel like I’m about to start shaking, and I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. I make a circuit of the room, checking tables, emptying ashtrays, but in my peripheral vision, I track every word and gesture at that table. They don’t challenge him, not really. They test, they prod, but something about him passes. Maybe it’s the way he holds his drink, or that he doesn’t try to keep up with Mayhem’s drinking, or maybe it’s that he listens more than he talks, which is rare in a place like this. I set the tray down behind the bar with a sharp clink that feels like breaking glass in the stillness of my brain.
I breathe and hold in a scream. Because my brain is suddenly stacking red flags like receipts in a drawer at the end of a Friday night.
Riley appears, soft and careful, as if the noise in my head has summoned her.
“What’s wrong?” Riley says, and she’s dropped the sass, which means my poker face has failed.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She puts a hand on my forearm. “Molls, don’t do that. Don’t shut me out. I care about you.”
I force a smile that tastes like metal. “It’s just… weird seeing a civilian get that cozy with them.”
“Civilian,” Riley repeats, like she’s testing the word. “Evan’s a civilian?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Riley glances toward the table again, then back to me.
“Huh. Weird. Well, at least he’s cute,” she says, voice light on purpose. “At least he fits in.”
