That is the smile of a man who is up to something.
I step off the stage on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
The applause follows me down, hands reaching out from the crowd—pats on the shoulder, squeezes of my arm, a dozen strangers telling me things I can barely process through the ringing in my ears.
“That was incredible!”
“Your voice—oh my God.”
“Can you sign my napkin?”
I smile and nod and murmur thank-yous, moving on autopilot while the rest of me floats somewhere several inches above my body.
As soon as I can, I push through the crowd until I reach Mason.
He’s still behind the tripod, but his hands have left the camera. One glance and he reads me like a book.
“You look like you need a cigarette.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “God, I really do.”
Mason’s mouth quirks in a patient smile. “Do you have any left in your emergency pack?”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck because he isn’t supposed to know about that. “I have one left.”
Mason nods once, already turning back toward the camera. “I need to stay and finish recording the rest of Atticus’s set. But Judah can go with you.”
Because I want to pull Judah away from him now. “I’ll be right outside. It’s fine.”
I slip away before either of them can reply, through the crowd and out the front door. The noise of the bar drops to a muffled thrum behind the closed door, replaced by the quiet of an empty street.
Leaning back against the brick wall, I dig through my pockets in search of a lighter. The cigarette dangles unlit from my lips.
“Fuck,” I mutter around the filter, still rummaging. Where the hell did I put it?
The door of the bar opens behind me, spilling warm light that is immediately replaced by a long shadow. I don’t turn around, assuming it’s just someone stepping out for air or heading home early. My fingers finally close around the familiar shape of my lighter, and I pull it free with a small sound of triumph.
I cup my hand around the flame as I flick it to life, the small fire casting flickering shadows across my fingers.
“Told you I’d be seeing you soon.”
I don’t even get the chance to scream.
Darkness descends as rough burlap is pulled over my face. Rough hands grip my arms, my waist, hauling me backward off my feet. My heels drag across pavement, then gravel, then nothing as the ground disappears beneath me entirely.
FORTY
DOMINIC
The bar is runninglike a well-oiled machine for the first time in weeks.
I slide a pint of lager across the scarred wood to a guy I vaguely recognize from the fish processing plant, collect his crumpled bills, and move on to the next customer without breaking stride.
Charging a small cover fee had been an idea and it seems to have worked out well. Derek had pushed back initially, claiming it would piss off our regulars. But five bucks at the door filtered out the riffraff looking for trouble and brought in people actually here for the music.
More importantly, it kept the Sinners out.
I pour a cocktail for a woman dressed for a day of leisure boating who looks like she wandered in on accident. She takes a sip, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
