I pull the shirt on over my head. “I’m sorry, Jax. I know it’s opening night… I shouldn’t have made you drink that much and?—”
“Relax,” he says, cutting me off, his tone light. “I wanted to, okay? And you’re the one who seems to be regretting everything.” He hands me the plate, and I take a bite, my eyes avoiding his.
I move my hand over my face. “Look, I just got back and I don’t know what?—”
“Sisk, look at me,” he says, his voice suddenly flat, all the teasing gone. “Last night was just one fuck buddy helping another, okay? Don’t overthink it.”
I want to say I’m relieved, but the casualness of him, the way he just built a wall and slammed the door in my face, makes me jump to my feet. “Right. Fuck buddies, of course.”
He grabs my wrist.
“Don’t,” I say, pulling away and grabbing my clothes. I start putting on my shoes frantically.
The lights flicker again. “You might want to get this place checked,” I say, trying to joke but my voice cracks. “Might be haunted.”
He sees right through me. “Sisk, are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, my voice perfectly level. “I’ve had plenty of practice at this part. It’s kind of our thing, isn’t it?” I turn and leave his place as fast as I can, slamming the door behind me to hide the tears that are breaking free.
Sixty-Nine
NOW | JAX
“It really is not a good day to poke the man,” Matt tells him.
I don’t bother looking up yet.
“I’m not poking anyone,” Rourke answers. “I’m here for a drink. You won’t deny peace to an old friend, will you, St. Clair?”
Fucking figures, of all the goddamn days for him to show up. Rourke lowers himself onto a stool and Matt looks at me.
Matt knows about most of the bullshit. Even when I tried to keep the curse shit to myself, he always knew about the past, about all the town whispers and why they look at me like I’m a walking bad omen.
“You gonna stand there judging me,” Rourke says, “or pour?”
I grab the bottle without answering and slide a glass toward him. It’s a hard, angry shove, and the glass tilts, spinning on its edge, about to shatter all over my bar. Right before it’s about to spill, it wobbles, then rights itself, settling perfectly still an inch from his hand. Rourke doesn’t even notice.
“Rosen came by my place last night,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor.
I don’t react. “Did he.”
“You should’ve seen him.” Rourke swirls the whiskey slowly, watching it catch the light like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Got himself a new theory.”
I set the bottle down with a thud. “You don’t say,” I add dryly.
He knows I hate this dance. This pathetic little tango he does, poking at a scar that’s never going to heal. Which is exactly why he keeps doing it. Ever since high school, he's made a sport out of it. Every time somebody disappears, every time a body turns up somewhere it shouldn't, every time Rosen gets a new idea in his head, Rourke comes sniffing around to see if I'll react.
“What’s the theory this time?” I ask, the words dragged out of me.
Rourke shrugs. “That the disappearances aren’t disappearances.”
“That narrows it down,” Matt responds for me.
“According to him,” Rourke continues, ignoring him, “they’re sacrifices. For a god.”
