Either that, or he’s a little pissed that I didn’t take him up on his offer of calling him.
File it. Box it. Lock away the key.
I’m not one hundred percent certain of the hierarchy here, but Noir feels like something of a democracy, where Ever is the king supreme on the premises and Shiloh is a close second.
And yet…Ever doesn’t feel like ‘the boss.’ I’m not sure why I have that instinct, but the gut feeling lingers. Ever holds the room, but he doesn’t wear the room. He’s guarding it for someone else.
The one certainty I’ve gleaned from hanging around is that Shiloh and Ever are a unit. Unbreakable. They remind me, in a way, of how Delia and I were before she died. There’s a kind of twinship in the way they communicate without words, using an arched eyebrow or a pointed look.
“Good morning, lovely people,” I sing out as I enter and plop down on a barstool, trying a different tack. Everseems to be perpetually grumpy; maybe he needs someone to put him in a good mood?
Ever narrows his eyes at me over a coffee mug. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! I would never.”
Shiloh snorts.
So far, Ever isn’t impressed or moved by my persistence.
Yesterday, he sent me out into the street without a word. He lifted his hand and pointed a finger at the door, like he was chastising a guilty dog with muddy paws. Shiloh just looked at him and shook his head.
Angry tears smarted, and I turned on my heel and stomped away before they saw them fall.
Today I’m more prepared. My three rubber bands are in place, and a black hair tie binds my chestnut locks to the top of my head in a neat bun. I’ve got a classic black tank top underneath my hoodie, and I spent an hour last night cleaning off my boots.
Everything about me says This Girl Means Business.
“Look, you might as well just give me a job. I’m just going to keep coming back until you see what a great hire I’ll be. It’s actually the same thing I did to get to my position under Captain Lange in Chicago. He didn’t want to hire me, either—didn’t believe a scrawny nineteen-year-old had what it took to be a Chicago EMT.”
“Is that so?” Shiloh asks.
“Yes. It took me exactly six days to prove him wrong.”
“So you were…are? An EMT?” Ever’s glance is confused.
“Yes.”
“Why on earth do you want to work in a bar, then?”
I swallow. I don’t have a good answer for that, and realize too late that I probably should have kept my mouth shut. “I needed a change,” I finally say. “I’m sure I’ll go back to it one day, but there are reasons I couldn’t stay on the squad.”
Ever’s chin tips up. “Ah. Well, I’m not sure working a bar is the best?—”
He’s interrupted by the inward swing of the door and a sweaty, loud rush of tourists. Half of them descend upon the bar, while the other half pile in among the tables, fanning themselves and collapsing into chairs as though they’ve just run a marathon.
“Shit,” Shiloh says. “Where’s Sonny?”
“In the back. What about Justine?”
“Not due until dinner. I’ll call her in.” Shiloh begins rounding the bar toward the back.
I wave a hand. “Um, hello. Just your handy neighborhood applicant over here…no?” Ever ignores me. “Okay, then.”
I sit quietly and watch, taking stock. Even the air is louder. Not music-louder—people-louder. Chairs scraping.A sharp burst of laughter echoes from the back. The whole room feels like it’s starting to surge before the wave hits.
On the various TV screens, some football game plays, and a roar goes up from a group of guys gathered around one of them.
Ever stands behind the bar in his perpetual spot, but he isn’t polishing glasses in beveled-soldier formation today. His hands are moving faster, drawing drinks and sliding them to customer after customer. His jaw is set. The precision that defines him is still there—it’s just…weaponized. Controlled chaos.
