Now that I’ve been shoved into their house and fed their coffee and walked their property barefoot like I belong there, I’m realizing something that sits ugly in my chest—I can’t get to Midnight withoutthem.
Not if Midnight is real. Not if Midnight is a word you whisper to the right person. Not if the wrong person hearing it gets you buried, the way Shiloh and Ever are acting.
I take an order, deliver two beers, smile, move. I clear plates and dodge elbows and keep my tone bright enough to keep people from asking questions.
The first time I try to ask Ever about him again, it happens without any real plan.
I swing behind the bar for napkins—Sonny’s at the other end and I’m not walking a mile through bodies for a stack of paper—when Ever’s hand shoots out and catches my wrist before I can take two steps.
He’s not rough. His thumb makes a precise sort of swipe over my pulse before it goes still, a stop sign made of flesh.
“You need something?” he says, not looking at me. He’s pouring at the same time, a multitasking machine.
“Napkins.”
“Up front. You don’t need to be back here.”
The grip on my wrist doesn’t loosen. His thumb just maintains that pressure against my pulse.
Heat flashes in my bloodstream, and for a second my brain goes blank. Then I force myself to remember why I’m here.Get your shit together, Reva.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “Does he come here? To the bar?”
His eyes flick up, dismantling me from the inside out. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”
I swallow. “Ever...”
His jaw ticks. “Just. Don’t.”
That’s it. That’s his answer. No explanation. No warnings wrapped in polite kindness. Just a wall.
I pinch my lips closed and back out into the crowd, napkin-less and cheeks burning.
Shiloh is waiting for me at the edge of my section, watching the whole thing.
He leans close, voice low enough to be for my ears only. “Stop pushing him.”
“But he’s so easy to push. I breathe and he’s pushed.”
Shiloh’s mouth curves. “He’s just being careful.”
“Same thing,” I mutter, passing him with a tray balanced in my hand.
“Not even close,” he calls after me, amused. Then, as I keep walking, his voice drops. “Stop cornerin’ him just because you want somethin’, Reva.”
I freeze for half a second, then I keep moving. Because I do want something. And the clock ticking in my gut tells me I’m running out of time I can’t measure.
* * *
Shiloh can’t leave it alone. He slides into my section mid-rush like he belongs there—which I suppose he does—and takes an empty tray off my hands as if it weighs nothing.
He nods at my hands. “Your hands are shakin’,Yank.”
They are.
Not from work, though. From the constant restraint. From the fact I’m standing in the center of the one place that might lead me to Deacon and I have to smile pretty at strangers while my insides itch with the need to scream.
I clamp my fingers around the edge of the tray, trying to tug it back. “I’m fine.”
