I'm posted near the end of the bar, close enough to watch the hallway stairs and far enough from the noise to think. Sloane's been upstairs with Candace for almost an hour. She said she'd take her time, ease in, make sure the girl didn't feel rushed.
I nodded the way a calm, rational husband would.
My brain was running threat assessments and exit strategies. It's been stuck on Sloane's face when I told her what Chuck did. The way her eyes went flat and her hands stopped moving.
"I should've gotten to her sooner," Malachi mutters, turning again. "Should've seen it."
"Should've, should've. You gonna rewrite yesterday, too, or just today?"
He gives me a look that would make most people take a step back.
I don't.
He grunts and leans his shoulder into the wall near me instead.
Down in the main bar, East leans against the counter, flirting with a brunette in a tight top who's been making eyes at him for three weekends running. He flashes her that easy grin, taps her wrist where she's holding her beer, says something that makes her blush to her ears.
He's already forgotten her name. I'd put money on it. I pull from my bottle and hold it.
"Don't know why he gives them hope," I say under my breath. "Man's allergic to a repeat performance."
Malachi huffs out something that might be a laugh. "Maybe he just likes the game."
"Yeah. He likes the part where he gets his dick wet, then ghosts like a saint doing penance."
We both watch as the front door opens. The air shifts.
Darla walks in, sun catching on her hair, cheeks flushed from the outside heat. She's in a fitted black skirt and a soft cropped sweater, the hem brushing her waist. Polished. Effortless. With that quiet edge she carries now; good girl gone rebel in slow motion.
I swear East feels it before he sees her, head turning as though someone called his name.
The brunette might as well vanish.
He straightens. Smile changes. Softer, less practiced. His hand comes up to push his sunglasses into his hair, same move asalways, but the cocky tilt is gone. He says something to the regular, and even from here I can tell it's a gentle brush-off.
Yeah. Game over.
"Uh-huh," I murmur. "Just the game."
Malachi follows my gaze, sees the way East tracks Darla across the room, the awkward little orbit they do to avoid getting too close.
"He's gonna be a mess," Malachi says.
"Already is."
Off to the left, Frankie's at a high-top with Ruby. Frankie's perched on a stool, ankles crossed, black tank and ink on full display, amusement curling her mouth. Ruby's animated, hands flying, curls bouncing, laughing loud enough half the room hears.
They both greet Darla when she slides onto one of the stools. Darla's new to us, but not new to Candace, and Malachi's already folded Darla into the chaos as though she's always belonged. That's the thing about him; once he decides you're his, that's it. Circle drawn. World shrinks down to who he'd burn it for.
I get it.
The kitchen door swings open. Maggie sticks her head out, eyes cutting straight to Malachi and me.
"You two eaten?" she asks.
Malachi just blinks at her. He hasn't tasted food in hours. I shake my head.
She tsks. "Thought so. I'll make plates. Mal, you're going to make sure that girl upstairs eats if I have to come up there and hand-feed her. And Knox." Her gaze slides to me, sharp and kind at once. "You and Sloane coming by the house tonight? I can throw extra on the grill. James would love to see you."
