Page 46

“Loud and clear. Drink up, man.” The bartender slides another glass before me, so I drown myself in that one too. Pathetic, right? Who am I?

My fingers slide into my pocket, curl around the unfamiliar object stashed inside. Might as well inspect my loot. Even if it has no value, even if it means jack shit to me now that this night’s over. Even if I paid a fucking soul price for it, watching the cops surround that house and knowing it was my fault.

Nick was a piece of shit, but he didn’t deserve that.

I slide my hand back out, a small blue slightly flattened tube pressed against my palm. Takes me a second to realize what it is . . .

What the fuck? I knew it was gonna be some kind of weird bullshit, but what the actual fuck.

I lift it up a little closer to inspect. There’s no way it’s just what it looks like, right, which means it’s gotta be . . . Nah. It can’t be magic, can it? Does such a thing even exist? I mean, it’d be fucking cool as hell, like an actual Jax dream, but how would something like that exist?

If it is magical at all, I should not be poking at it out in a public bar, so I stuff it back into my pocket. I’ll take a closer look at that in the privacy of my own home, thank you very much.

What a fucking night. Roller coasters, ups and downs, plot twists, mystery men in masquerade masks, apparently a healthy dose of alliteration . . . Shit. I’m getting poetic. And ya know? I’m done moping around. Fuck this emo bullshit. I’m Jax fucking Winter—self-made legend, man of mystery myself, and I do not fucking mope.

Moping is letting the world make you into something you didn’t choose to be, and nah. That’s never been my jam.

You know what is?

I turn to my right, to the young guy beside me. Mid-twenties, white, tall and lean but might work out on occasion. Backwards cap, kind of a bro look, a few drinks into the night.

I unfurl my best grin. “Hey man. You like card tricks?”

He turns, a question scrawled across his features, but I’ve already got my cards in hand, flitting between my fingers like butterflies through a garden. “Pick a card, any card . . .”

Doesn’t take long, or much shuffling and flipping, for me to draw a crowd. In no time at all, I’ve moved my operation onto one of the round tables toward the middle of the room so more people can cluster around and ogle. I’m not even trying, hell I’m not even stealing. For once, my klepto fingers are quiet, placid. Content with putting on a show, no ulterior motive.

I flash my grin, dimple on full display, making eye contact with men and women, young and old, rich and poor. No wallets or jewelry lifted, no pockets cleared out, no wandering digits exploring places they have no right to be.

Nah, for tonight, I simply pull oohs and aahs and exclamations of surprise from the crowd with the faintest flicks of my fingers. No ulterior motives. No sleights of hand.

I’m almost having fun. Or, well, my definition of fun. My stepbrother Ellias would’ve rolled his eyes in dismay. Rachel would’ve scoffed. I like to think Maggie would’ve approved, and for some reason, that makes me smile. At least someone would agree I’m having a good time. Letting loose a bit.

And I’m drinking, so maybe Ellias might have allowed some leniency in his definitions. My head’s starting to go light and fuzzy, my face relaxed, soft.

We’ll call it fun: Jax and the cards and a small gathered crowd. Me grinning like a fool at each and every one of the people in it. Like just for tonight, we’re all friends. Or at least co-conspirators as we pluck good times from a night otherwise devoid of joy. All of us here, united.

That is, until the door to the bar opens, and a blond man walks in.

For a second, I stop breathing. My eyes fix, struggling to take him in all at once: the breadth of his shoulders, the cool slide of light bangs across a sun-darkened forehead, straight nose, hard cheekbones, curved mouth—

I exhale in a poof of air.

Not him.

Not fucking him.

Not my mystery man from the party a handful of hours prior. Just a cute blond guy that made me think about things I don’t want to think about, can’t afford to think about. Pulled me from my happy bubble and plunked me back down into reality.

The nerve, honestly.

I shuffle the cards through my fingers with an easy tug, like pulling long strands of silky hair, but fold them together at the end. Done playing, at least for now. And then, for reasons I’m sure I’ll never understand, I call out over my gathered crowd, “Who wants a drink? On me!”

Dumb, but nobody ever said I was smart, eh?

And I’ve just become the most popular guy in this bar—as if I wasn’t already. Guys pat me on the back, fist-bump, a couple of girls smile my way or bat their lashes. One older woman even strokes my elbow in a strangely familiar gesture. All of them cluster around the counter to collect their rewards for my temporary friendship.

So, why does it feel so hollow? Is it because I’m realizing this is always how my friends are made, earned, kept—through tangible rewards, payment, free drinks, or cheap smiles? Why hasn’t it ever felt hollow before tonight?