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What do you want, Jax?

What indeed?

Nah, you know what I need?

Some actual friends. Or, I guess, the closest I’ve got to them. It’s about time I trekked back to the Billow Bar to see what the regulars are up to. Just for tonight, I’ll pretend I’m a normal guy with normal friends, getting shitfaced on a Saturday night. Like, you know, normal people do.

Drink with folks whose companionship I haven’t paid for, in one way or another.

So I catch a cab. I even call Rachel en route. Straight to voicemail again, but this time, I leave a message. “It’s Jax, love. Come down to Billow Bar, if you wanna kick it casual.”

And when I walk to the door of that bar, I shove right on through, clanging those bells like a whole herd of fucking cows, inform the entire crew that Jax Winter has arrived. “Who’s drinking tonight?”

Journey’s “Separate Ways” hums in the background, just loud enough to feel like the soundtrack to my night. Gabby shoots me a knowing grin over her shoulder. “You know the answer to that, Jaxy.”

“Always, eh?” I stroll up to Tommy’s table, shoot him a wink and a finger gun. He’s got on a tie-dye Grateful Dead T, and I’m all about it. “How’s it hanging? Love the vibe.”

“Living the dream, man.” He flashes me a half smile behind his long beard, narrowly avoiding his pint glass once again. Past him, the Bear Brothers slump in their corner, Larry beaming at Jason, who’s leaning on the bar top. The way he slurs and slaps the table, I’m pretty sure he’s attempted a joke.

Jason, for his part, laughs.

There’s comfort in that familiarity. Something I’ve never let myself embrace—in holding the same people, the same bars, the same home, the same . . . anything, really. In the comfort of familiarity.

Keep moving, that’s always been my motto.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll stay a bit longer. I plop down at Tommy’s table. “Got any good stories tonight?”

Behind him Gabby waves her empty martini glass. “You’re slacking tonight, Jason! Stop letting Larry’s pretty eyes distract you!”

“Larry’s ex-wife is back in town,” Tommy says, tossing a glance over his shoulder at the Bear Brothers. “He’s getting shitfaced tonight.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I say, loud enough the Bear Brothers look over. I’m up on my feet and headed toward them. “Another round, boys?”

I slide into the stool mid-bar, between Gabby and the brothers, Jason in front of me, head craned up toward the TV. Tommy behind me, chortling about something.

There’s a couple of randoms positioned around the small space, mostly keeping to the corners. And when Rachel strides through the door of the bar—jangling the bells just enough to let us know she’s not a regular, but not quite enough to mark her a stranger—it feels like all my favorite sheep have come home to their herd.

This bar, these are my people. Not friends. Don’t stay anywhere long enough for that. Don’t tell them who I really am either, and I guess to be friends, you’re supposed to share that kinda shit.

I haven’t had a real friend since back in the old days, when I first fled the West and was roughing it in a Queens apartment with four other dudes while I tried to make a name for myself—but I don’t think about Maggie anymore. Or Chloe.

They’re all a story for another day.

But these folks? These are my people. Broken people. People who the world forgot, tossed aside, and they soldiered on anyway, maybe just to spite the universe. We’ve walked different paths. But in the end, we’ve all trudged that bed of rusted nails and shards of glass. Had to carve out a place where none’s given.

Rachel plops down beside me, tosses an arm over my shoulders.

“Good to see you, love,” I murmur against her hair. And it does feel strangely like home. We’re all separate, all together. All broken and whole. All alive and breathing and taking up space in this rinky-dink little slice of a bar.

My cards appear in my hands, like I summoned them from thin air. Which, of course, I did not. “Anyone want to see a card trick?”

Rachel laughs and shoves me off. “Hell, no.”

“Oh, Jax. Give it a rest,” Gabby says, without any heat at all. In fact, the gaze she turns on me could almost be described as . . . fond.

What a fucking night, man.

One I surely won’t forget anytime soon. One that I guess—if I sat and thought about it—came with a lesson or two. Uncomfortable lessons, perhaps, but at least not hard learned.