Page 16 of Into Pitch

I shake my head, and turn to finish counting the till and slide it into the safe beneath the bar, the familiar clack of metal on metal grounding me. I then move about closing up. Chairs are flipped. Lights are dimmed. The bar settles into its after-hours quiet, the kind that feels earned instead of lonely. I give it one more cursory glance to make sure everything is where it should be before slipping out and locking the door at my back. Outside, the night hums with passing cars and distant music from somewhere I don’t bother to care about.

What I do care about is that I can’t get the mirrored room out of my head.

I don’t know his name past Plague, nor do I know his face. But I can’t seem to concentrate on anything long enough because I’m too busy trying to make sense of the space he has taken up inside of my head.

He’s lurking in the back of my thoughts constantly. He finds me when I’m washing down glasses or when I’m sitting in bed late at night contemplating why everyone was so surprised I walked out unscathed. There hadn’t been a nest of bodies waiting for me when I entered the mirrors like the wolf man had, but maybe that was because I was the first person into the room that night?

Had there been another possible outcome in that room? What could I have said or done that would have allowed me to survive while others believed I shouldn’t have? So many damn questions and no way of finding answers, because when I look up Pitch online, all I find is vague as shit social media posts of bracelets advertising it.

No one willing to really talk about it.

Not that I blame them after witnessing what I had. I just wish there was more to go on and why the invites had been given to Imogen of all people.

I double check the lock on the bar at my back and cross the street, not urgently, but out of habit. Imogen’s tattoo shop is still lit up from the inside, bathing the entire street in a welcoming neon glow. The warmth of it drawing me in as I reach the front door and pull it open to the familiar tune of the hilarious little cackling bell she installed a year back and refused to take down.

It’s late, but that’s never stopped her. Creativity doesn’t keep business hours and I’m not sure Imogen knows the concept of sleep. A couple of her artists also seem to live by this concept too because they are still up front, heads bent over skin and sketches, the low buzz of their machines filling the space. Billy, the artist who helped her open the shop, nods to me in acknowledgement in passing but doesn’t say much. I give him a soft smile, weaving past the familiar smells of ink, green soap, and coffee that has been reheated one too many times.

Imogen’s private room at the back of the shop is cracked open and I peek in to double check she’s not with a client. My gaze snags on where she’s sitting at her desk in the corner of the room, her hair pulled up messily and her sketchbook open before her. So engrossed in her drawing that she doesn’t notice when I press the door open, her pencil moving in quick, confident strokes.

Sighing, I pad across the room and toss myself down onto the tattoo chair, folding my hands in my lap and waiting patiently for my best friend to take notice of me.

“You’re still wearing it,” she says calmly and I blink. My gaze darting down to the chain at my wrist.

Freaky little shit this one. I swear there are eyes in the back of her pretty skull.

“Yeah,” I mutter guiltily.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

There’s a pregnant, heavy pause.

“I wasn’t going to bring it up,” she starts. “But… my clinic is doing pro bono sessions again.”

There it is.

I lean back in the chair, moving to cross my arms behind my head as I level my gaze at the side of her face. Her eyes refusing to lift to meet mine since we’ve had this conversation a dozen or more times over the years. “Imogen—”

“I know,” she cuts gently. “I know what you’re going to say. You don’t need to be fixed.”

“Damn right I don’t,” I stick.

She turns fully toward me now, expression soft but steady. “I’m not talking about fixing, Sadie. I’m talking about… maintaining.”

I perk an eyebrow at her, letting her continue because I know she’s going to regardless of my opinion.

“Think of it like physical therapy or an oil change. Or—hell—stretching before you pull something you can’t unpull.” A small smile tugs at her mouth. “Talking to someone helped me. Especially after Pitch.”

That word still lands heavy between us and she knows exactly what she’s doing. I both love and hate her for it.

I think of mirrors and honesty though. Of uglier truths that don’t soften themselves for comfort. Plague’s voice slips through my memory, unwanted and certainly uninvited.

The truth of my past is ugly.

“I can try,” I relent finally. “But if I don’t get picked up for free, I can’t afford it. I’m not stringing you along just to disappoint you later.”

Her smile is so bright I swear the bulb over our head borrows some of the energy to brighten the room. “Trying is still a step forward.”