And the kiss.
I press my fingers to my lips in the dark like I can still feel it, which is pathetic. It lasted maybe four seconds. It was barely anything.
And then he was gone. Apologizing, backing away, out the door before I could form a single coherent word.
What does that mean? That he regrets it? That it was a mistake? That I'm a woman he feels sorry for, a charity case he got too close to in a weak moment?
The old familiar voice, the one that sounds suspiciously like Marcus's father on a bad night, is happy to fill in the blanks.
*Obviously he regrets it. Look where you're living. Look at your situation. What would a man like that want with someone like you?*
I shut that voice down hard. I've gotten better at that over the past two years. Not perfect, but better.
By five in the morning, I give up on sleep entirely, shower quietly so I don't wake Marcus, and make us both breakfast on the tiny two-burner stove. Scrambled eggs and toast, the breakfast I can make with my eyes closed. Marcus wakes up at six-thirty with his usual demand to know what superheroes eat for breakfast and whether eggs count.
"Definitely," I tell him, kissing the top of his head. "Spider-Man loves scrambled eggs."
"Does he put ketchup on them?"
"Absolutely."
He considers this very seriously. "Okay then."
Mrs. Amber arrives at noon, cheerful and carrying a paper bag that smells like the bakery down the street. She presses a pineapple bun into my hands before I can leave and tells me I look tired and should eat more.
I eat the bun on the bus.
The forty-five minute ride gives me entirely too much time to think, which is the last thing I need. I watch Vegas scroll past the scratched bus window, the gradual transformation from residential neighborhoods to tourist corridors, the shift from ordinary city to the version of itself Vegas sells to strangers.
I need this job.
That's what I keep coming back to. One hundred and sixty-three dollars last night, that's what matters. That's what's real. Not kisses that lasted four seconds, not gray eyes that see too much, not confessions exchanged in motel bathroom fluorescent light.
Marcus needs new shoes. I need to save first and last month's rent on an apartment. I need to find out about evening classes at UNLV, community college, anything that moves me one step closer to the nursing degree I've been postponing since I was nineteen years old.
I need to be a functioning adult, not a woman who can't stop touching her own lips on public transportation.
So, here's the plan: I go in, I work my shift, I make good tips, and if I see Havoc I am professional and pleasant and completely unbothered. I am a woman who has been through actual hard things, real things, and I can handle being in the same building as a man who kissed me and apologized for it.
The plan lasts approximately until I walk through the employee entrance and Liz falls into step beside me.
"You survived night one," she says brightly. "Ready for night two?"
"Ready," I say, with more conviction than I feel. "Has to be better than yesterday, right?"
"I mean... statistically? Probably yes."
"You're not filling me with confidence."
"You dumped beer on the club enforcer and he didn't fire you, ban you, or spontaneously combust," she says, pushing open the locker room door. "I'd call that a solid foundation."
I change into my uniform—clean black tank top, black pants, the Steel Sinners apron, and take an extra thirty seconds with my hair. My curls are cooperating today, which feels like a minor miracle, and I pull them back more loosely than I usually do because the tight bun I wore yesterday gave me a headache.
This is not because Havoc's hand felt caring when he adjusted my helmet last night. This is because of headaches. Practical reasons.
I look at myself in the mirror. Dark eyes, dark curls, the beauty marks on my cheek that Marcus likes to connect with his finger like dot-to-dot puzzles. I look tired, which I am, but I look determined, which I also am.
*You can do this.*
