When I make it to the fountain, a few students are hanging around, their laughter echoing.
I catch myself for a moment wishing I was them.How would it feel to be really happy for just five minutes? To not care about what anyone thought, the future or where my degree will take me?I wish I could paint and enjoy it, simply because I can, not because I need a scholarship to prove Ma wrong.
It takes everything I have not to sneak a quick glance back their way, but I force my chin high and move toward the big U-shaped brick building across the road.
When I reach the main gates of Booker Bay University, Ryker is waiting.
‘What took you so long?’
Chapter 3
Ryker
PRESENT
Time doesn’t heal a thing.
Guilt, anger, regret, grief – all emotions they told me that time can heal.
They’re wrong.
Time’s only allowed that shit to heighten, expand or become so intense that I can taste it. I’m reminded of each of these worthlessfeelingsevery time I come back to Booker fucking Bay. Even more when I ride past where it happened. The images bleed into my mind and devour me from the inside out.
Guilt doesn’t just haunt me. It consumes me, creeping up my throat in the middle of the night and suffocating me. Parts of me died that night, only to visit me in my nightmares.
Time hasn’t granted me healing. It’s given me rage.
It’s been four years of looking forhimand never getting within reach. The small upside is he’s finally getting sloppy and his trail is getting easier to trace. Double plus: the latest maggot in his infestation of a crew has just walked into my bar and is now perched at one of the red-wood poseur tables.
While I won’t show it on my face, the desperationfor my hunt to be over causes knives of apprehension to skewer my insides. Every bone in my body is screaming for me to just grab the man by the collar and demand answers, but that’s not the plan.Hiscrew are tight-lipped – I know that from beating the last guy senseless – and even as the lackey writhed in his own blood, he spat out lies that sent us on a wild-goose chase.
We have to play this one smart, so I need to calm myself down.
Behind the bar, I pour two fingers of whiskey and drain it. Beside me, one of the bartenders, Rose, gives a small smile as she pours a Guinness. Her acrylic nails clack against the faucet handle as she lifts it up to a stop.
‘Shoot,’ she says, grabbing a drip tray. ‘Boss, d’ya think we could get this faucet looked at? Hasn’t stopped all night.’
Drip.
That sound.
I pour another shot of whiskey and bring it to my lips but pause.
Drip.
My eyes twitch, my brain short-circuiting.
Drip.
I battle with the darkness clouding my vision.
‘Boss?’ Rose snaps me out of the episode I was about to enter. I down my whiskey before giving her a nod and placing the glass in one of the wash racks.
‘I’ll get it fixed in the morning. Do we have enough staff on tonight?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got it all covered.’
I take in the scene. Floor-to-ceiling timber cladding and warm dim lights line the walls of my bar, Luxe. It was my dad’s but he passed it to me, probably because it was oneof the worst-performing venues in his register of businesses. My parents made it clear that this venture was just meant to keep me out of trouble – they need the Edwards name clear for whatever overseas investments they’re seeing to. I doubt they expected me to turn it into a hotspot of Empire City.
