: Chapter 9

Trace slept in my bed, and we didn’t have sex. I’m still smiling two days later. He was sweet. I’ve never seen him like that before.

If I’m around, I’ll help him set up that pub someday. I’d love to, actually.

I roll the dish rack back into the washer, picturing it in my head.

I’d be proud to see him have that dream. Really proud. Still not sure about the cottage part, though. It’s barely big enough for a family. Or his brothers if they visit. Not sure he’s thought that through.

I plop down in the chair next to the cook’s station, taking Santos’s flask as he rolls out dough for pies.

I take a swig, wincing when I taste whiskey. He raises his eyebrows at me, because I’m a bold little minor, aren’t I? But he doesn’t say it out loud, just goes back to his baking.

“That kind of sucked.” I twist the cap back on and set it down. “What a long day.”

“But I bet that wad of tips in your apron doesn’t suck.”

I chuckle. No, it doesn’t. Bateman returned the next day for Mars and Paisleigh, so my mom must’ve paid him somehow, but Army told me if I need to leave at any time, then I need to leave. They’d deal with it.

A few customers remain on the patio, but the restaurant inside is empty, except for Jessica mopping the floor. It’s after nine. I should get home. My mom will be on her third vodka tonic by now.

“How’s the family?” Santos asks.

“Can’t complain.” I can, but I won’t. “Yours?”

“My oldest wants to be a plumber,” he mumbles. “He got accepted to Texas A&M.”

That’s impressive. But … “Not everyone has to go to college,” I remind him.

“Easy for you to say when it’s someone else’s kid.”

I pause, thinking about that one. “Fair enough,” I tell him. “We’ll pick up this conversation again when it’s my child.”

“Deal.”

Although entirely different situations, he’s coming from the same place my mother is. They want the best opportunities for their children, but the difference is, my mother is willing to do—or force me to do—whatever it takes to ensure it.

Not sure she would’ve let me go to college, even if my dad hadn’t taken all the money.

And I’m not sure I would’ve gone either way.

I want to work, but just as a means to enjoy my life. To pay for trips to the drive-in with Mars and Paisleigh, and big meals with family and friends, and cute clothes that keep my husband’s eyes all over me.

And helping those around me who need it.

College would be a waste of money. At least right now. I have no desire for a career.

Iris bursts through the back door, breathing hard. “Can someone help me in the bar, please?” she whines, pulling bags of mixed nuts off the rack and piling them in her arms. “The Torreses are coming in with a shitload of people. I’m getting tables together now, but I’ll need help taking orders.”

Santos looks through the warmer, probably trying to see who else is still here, because I’ve already worked a double shift.

I debate for a split second, but then I say, “I can stick around for a little while longer.”

Guilt hits me, but I push it aside. The kids are fine. My mom raised the three of us so far without any deaths. I’ll only be a couple more hours.

Iris smiles, her shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. Please hurry.”

I tap out a text to Mars. Working a little longer. Text if there’s a problem.

And I stand up to follow her, but Santos pushes a brown bag into my chest. “Take this over first.”

I grab hold of Macon’s dinner, still not having told Mariette that he almost never eats it.

But yet … he continues to let her send it.

Tucking my phone in my back pocket, I push up the sleeves of my black hoodie and walk out of the restaurant, seeing the glow of the garage lights down the lane.

I haven’t seen Macon all day, and I don’t see the boys’ trucks out front, either. It’s better when Army or Trace is in the garage with him. I hate being alone with him. He doesn’t like me.

Everyone else likes me.

But when I veer right, into the garage, I see the hood of my car up, a work light hanging inside, and a Bluetooth speaker on a shelf playing an alternate rendition of Nirvana’s “Something in the Way.”

But there’s no one here.

“Hello?” I inch in, looking around the car for legs. The door to the kitchen is open, and I call out again. “Hello?”

But he’s not in earshot. I reach out, setting the bag down on his worktable, but then I hear a cry in the distance. “Please!”

I stop, some muffled sobs pricking my ears.

“No!” the man wails again.

The voice doesn’t sound familiar.

I jerk my eyes to the back door of the garage, seeing that it hangs open just slightly.

Keeping my feet light and quiet, I head for the back of the shop. “Please, just let me out!”

What the hell? I force my feet to keep going, slipping through the back door and looking around the pool, not seeing anyone. It’s coming from the woods. I walk across the deck, into the brush, and see a light.

“Please, Macon,” a man begs.

Macon comes into view, standing in the doorway of a container. Like the ones they put on the backs of semitrucks, with no windows and a lock on the outside. Has that always been sitting back here? I’ve never noticed.

He grips a man by the collar, the muscles in Macon’s back taut and the veins in his neck visible from here. I step, but foliage crunches under my shoe, and I dart to the left, hiding myself behind a tree.

My pulse races, and I close my mouth, because I’m breathing too hard.

After a moment, I hear Macon growl, “Where’s the food we bought your family?”

“F-Fisher had friends over, and um …” the guy gasps. “No, Macon, please!”

I peek around the tree, seeing him shove the man’s head into an oil drum I hope is filled with just water.

The man struggles, gripping the sides and pushing against Macon’s force.

But Macon doesn’t let him up until he wants to. Pulling his face out of the water, I study the guy, trying to figure out if I know him. There are a lot of people living deeper in the swamp who I haven’t met yet.

“Look at me,” Macon bites out, pulling him up again by the shirt. “Look at me!”

The man breathes hard, his legs limp underneath him.

“You’ve had your chances,” Macon tells him. “I’ve been nice, then I was firm, but this is it. You have another drink, or spend money on anything that takes food off your kids’ table, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.”

The man sobs. “It’s not just the alcohol, man. I’m … I mean … I’ve got a problem with drugs, too.”

“Shut up.” Macon pushes him back down into the water.

The man is one of them. Not an enemy. Macon’s trying to get him straight. Would he really kill him?

He yanks the man out by the back of his collar, shoves him in the container, and I rush to the next tree and then the next, trying to get a view inside, but all I catch sight of is a futon and some light that must be coming from a lamp or something. Macon slams the door shut and locks it, the guy inside pounding against the other side.

“Please!” he begs. “Please, let me out!”

“Three days,” Macon says. “When that shit is out of your system.”

“I can’t stop.” He sobs hard. “Macon, I wasn’t always like this. You know me. Please, man. I’m scared.”

Macon’s hand rests on the metal door, his head slowly falling. His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths.

“Macon …” the guy goes on. “It hurts!”

My stomach twists in knots, and I watch Macon Jaeger stand there. His shoulders shake a couple of times, his exterior slowly crumbling as his guard comes down.

Because right now, he doesn’t know anyone is watching him.

“Please …” the guy pleads.

I blink, a tear spilling over. I quickly wipe it away.

He has to know a detox not done right can kill someone. Do the others know he’s keeping this guy back here?

The guy hollers and pounds, and Macon turns, starting to walk away. His eyebrows press together, and his mouth hangs open just slightly, like he can’t breathe.

The guy carries on, and Macon closes his eyes again like the only way he’s going to see something good is by not seeing anything at all.

Gripping the side of the barrel, he plunges a hand into the water and splashes it across his face and the back of his neck. He walks toward the house, and I slip around the tree, staying out of sight.

But he suddenly stops, and I watch him as he stares at the riding lawn mower left outside with a couple of beer cans sitting in the holders. Trace was supposed to mow the lawn a week ago. I look around at the growth of weeds and grass. If he did, I can’t tell.

And he didn’t put the mower away. Macon runs his hand through the rainwater that’s pooled in the seat.

Damn Trace.

Macon stalks for the garage, yanking the rope off the hook near the side of the door, and disappears inside.

Something doesn’t sit right. Macon’s going to strangle him.

I start after him. I peer into the shop, seeing him hit the switch, closing the garage door, and head up the three steps into the house and into the kitchen. He still carries the rope.

I hesitate.

Trace isn’t home. There weren’t any trucks in front of the house. What is he doing?

I shoot off, heading into the house, and immediately hear footfalls upstairs. I start up slowly, listening as I go.

Their mother stares at me from photos as I climb. She hanged herself eight years ago, two months after her husband died.

But from what I understand, it wasn’t his death that drove her to finally do it. He was simply what kept her alive until then, and when he was gone, she just couldn’t stay. Trysta Jaeger.

Macon’s been drinking a lot the past few months. Not eating. Rarely ever leaves the house. I don’t care if it seems normal to everyone else. It’s not.

Why the hell couldn’t Trace finish the lawn? Or put the mower away? He’s almost twenty-one now. Macon shouldn’t have to stay on his ass over everything.

I reach the top of the landing, seeing steam seep through the crack in the bathroom door, and I hear the shower going.

But he doesn’t have the lights on. What’s he doing in the dark?

I glance one door down, at his closed bedroom door. His parents’ old room.

She did it in there. In the room where he now sleeps every night.

I approach the bathroom.

He’s okay. He’s always been moody. Kind of scary. He’s never been happy. Or smiley. Or conversational.

I lean in, trying to hear a change in the fall of water. Something signaling he’s washing or shampooing, but there’s no change.

I place my hand against the wooden door, debating if I should push it open enough to see, but just then, it swings open, and I pop up straight. Macon walks out, stalking right up to me.

I back up. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”

He stares down at me, wearing only a towel around his waist, but he’s not wet yet. The shower still runs. Shit. Does he know I was following him?

“Just making sure you’re here.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is like sandpaper. “Your food is—”

I point off somewhere as I look up at him, but I lose my train of thought at his hard gaze. He takes a step closer, and fear grips me. I’m alone in the house with him.

And he has someone he kidnapped locked in the storage container behind his house.

I drop my eyes, his glare hammering me into the ground.

But then … the pulse between my thighs thumps hard once, and I expel every ounce of breath in my lungs, nearly groaning.

Spinning around, I run, trying not to stumble down the stairs as his eyes burn my back. I get to the bottom, grab the handle, and yank open the front door, dashing out into the yard.

I take a few steps and glance behind me, relieved he’s not on my tail with that rope, ready to strangle me and drag my body back inside, because I’ve seen too much.

And then I draw in a deep breath, and after a few seconds, roll my eyes.

Jesus. Seriously, Krisjen? Way to overreact.

Rumors are rumors. I’ve never seen evidence that he’s done half the things people say, much less killed someone. And he may be doing something wrong by holding that man against his will in the backyard, but he’s doing it for the right reasons. Most people in the Bay can’t afford rehab.

It’s none of my business.

I must’ve looked like an idiot to him, though. The fear is suddenly gone, now replaced with embarrassment. I shouldn’t have gone in the house. That was stupid.

He just looked …

Incredible.

In the backyard, he looked vulnerable. Like something was squeezing his insides, and he was alone, and everything hurt him. Like things are hard for him, and why did it never occur to me that they were? No one notices his pain.

After a glance back at the house, where all the lights are off, I walk to the bar, not wanting to leave now.

But I pick up the pace, jogging faster, because Iris told me to hurry and is probably wondering where the hell I am.

As soon as I open the door to the bar, some old Avenged Sevenfold song blasts from the speakers, the party already underway. I leave my small hoodie on, the temperature well below the eighty-five I prefer, and jump behind the bar, grabbing a dish towel and shining up the glasses sitting on the rack to dry. One by one, I stack them on the shelves.

“You can leave, actually,” I hear behind me. “I’ll help.”

I look over my shoulder, seeing Aracely tying an apron around her waist. The crowd of people behind her talks loudly, and I spot Trace and Dallas in the mix. Army walks in the door, minus his kid, wearing a fresh black T-shirt. I can tell because the fold lines are still a little bit visible. His arms are tanner. They’ve had a full day.

“I’ll stick around for a bit,” I tell her.

“I don’t want to share tips.”

“You don’t have to.”

I’m not staying long enough to make a lot of tips anyway.

I face her, folding the towel and setting it down. She looks unamused that I’m not letting this turn into a fight. We should get drunk together.

“Hey,” someone calls out down the bar.

I quickly fill a glass with ice, pour a shot of Jack, and grab the soda hose, topping off the drink with Diet Coke. I stick a straw in and slide the glass across the bar to Aracely. “On me,” I tell her.

I don’t give her a chance to tell me to go fuck myself.

I head down the bar, looking up to see Trace. I start to smile, remembering his pub with the chesterfield chairs, but then I force it back down, remembering the lawn mower he left out in the rain.

“What’ll it be?” I snip.

But he seems not to notice my tone. “Vodka soda, two Land-Sharks, and the bride will have a …”

He looks behind him to a woman I can only assume is Mrs. Torres. She wears tight black leather pants, an animal-print bodice, and a white veil. Her long dark hair falls to just under her arms, and her lipstick is bright red. Dragon Girl by NARS. One of my favorite shades.

But the man next to her answers for her. “Captain and Diet,” he calls out to Trace.

She looks at him, adoration all over her blushing cheeks. “Thanks, baby.”

That must be the groom. He’s wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.

I dole out the drinks, and Trace takes them without paying, so I just mark it all down on paper to keep a running tab.

A few others come up for cocktails, and I pour four pitchers, handing everything with some extra glasses to all the guys coming up. No one pays, so I just continue to mark everything.

“To the bride and groom!” Trace holds up his beer.

Everyone joins him, Army with the vodka soda I made, and Dallas with one of the LandSharks.

“And ten more years of having sex in every single fucking location except your own damn house!”

Roars fill the room, so loud I can’t hear the music. I laugh.

The groom pulls his bride into his body, and she laughs with everyone else.

“We love you,” Trace tells them. “Macon couldn’t be here, but he did give me the credit card, so order what you want. It’s on us!”

He holds his bottle up higher, howls filling the air, and all of a sudden, the bar is flooded as a Brandi Carlile song starts on the jukebox.

I lean over, scooping ice into five glasses and adding vodka, Tabasco, Worcestershire, and Bloody Mary mix, while Iris stands at the other end filling all the servers’ orders. Someone wants calamari, another wants cheese sticks, and I’m really glad the point-of-sale system is the exact same as Mariette’s because otherwise I’d be crying right now.

Slowly, the crowd thins, everyone getting their first round, and Trace runs behind the bar, grabbing another beer.

I mark another line to keep track of his drinking. If the inventory doesn’t match up, I’m not getting yelled at.

He uncaps the beer and slaps a kiss on my cheek as I pop the tops on four Coronas. “Aren’t they already married?” I ask him as he rounds the bar again.

“They redid their vows,” he tells me. “Every ten years, they say.”

I watch Mr. Torres as he tries to put a maraschino cherry in his wife’s mouth, but she’s laughing too hard to let him. He circles her neck with his hand, pulling her back into him and planting a kiss on her mouth instead.

He leaves her and approaches the bar, slapping Trace on the back. “Macon didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“He wanted to,” Trace says, gesturing to me and handing me the credit card to keep. I stick it in an empty glass next to the register. “He appreciates you.”

“How is he?” Torres asks. “I haven’t seen anything other than glimpses of him in weeks.”

But Trace just nods, lifting a bottle to his lips. “He’s fine. Busy. Would you like another round?”

I notice the quick way Trace changes the subject, but Mr. Torres doesn’t seem to. He rears back, shaking his head.

But Trace pushes Torres’s drink up to his mouth, ordering him, “Chug it.”

Torres downs the rest of his whiskey neat, and I start to make him another one. I hand him the new glass just as a woman slips her arms around Trace.

His gaze darts to me, but I move down the bar, clearing away the empty glasses and bottles.

I don’t care.

He’s not mine. I’m not his.

But I avoid looking back in their direction, because I do care a little, and I know I shouldn’t.

It’s got to be a girl thing, right? Lingering territoriality? Possessiveness? Like I don’t want to be forgotten?

I let out a breath. I’ll get over it.

He takes her to the small dance floor, and they move, her body plastered to his and her arms around his neck. Dark hair longer than the bride’s, the smooth skin on her lower back glowing underneath his hands. The green silk top looks amazing against her tawny skin.

“You’ll never look as good with any of us as she does,” a familiar voice says.

I hold back my groan as I wipe down the bar. “Oh, we don’t know that.” I glance over at Dallas, who stands there with an empty beer bottle. “I haven’t been through everyone in your house yet.”

His eyes dance because he knows I never will and I’m just talking out of my ass. I uncap another beer and hand it to him, walking away before he can say more.

The jukebox goes through every song twice, and I spend a good amount of time trying not to have a meltdown when Aracely needs help cleaning up vomit in the bathroom. She kicks a stall door in anger, and it slaps me in the nose, but after the pain subsides and we’re sure I’m not going to bleed, she buys me a shot but still doesn’t say she’s sorry.

The bride and groom start making out on the dance floor, and I watch as Trace’s hand slips up his girl’s shirt. Dallas eyeballs me every time I look at Trace. I really feel like I’m going to end up in Dallas’s trunk someday.

I finish the dishes, clean up the bar, and take out a load of trash, leaning against the counter as the party goes on and the servers start dancing and chatting.

But every once in a while, I turn my head and look out the window. The house was dark for a while, but the garage door is back open and the light is on. He’s awake. Still there.

I don’t know why I worried. I’m reading too much into his behavior. He’s drinking a lot. It affects the appetite. And definitely his moods. That’s what his problem is.

I shouldn’t have tried to stop him from having sex with Turin on Halloween. Everyone else was having sex. Everyone was drinking. He needs to feel close to someone.

So why didn’t he come out tonight? Why doesn’t he ever go out? “You worked a full shift,” Army says, approaching the bar.

“Two full shifts, actually. You should go home.”

I face him, standing up straight. “My brother and sister are in bed, and if I go home, I’m legitimately scared my mom will have invited Jerome Watson over to ambush me.”

He breathes out a laugh, but he doesn’t ask me to clarify.

Did I tell him about Jerome Watson? I know I told someone.

In any case, he doesn’t ask me more.

“I loved how you described our house to your brother and sister.” His eyes gleam under his dark brow. “It made me feel pride again. Maybe the grass always looked greener everywhere else, or maybe … maybe I just needed to remember how to see the beauty in things. The little things.” He stares at me. “You make things pretty, Krisjen.”

I do?

He rises up. “We’re going to the strip club. You should come with us.”

“I’m a minor.”

“I know.” He grins. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. It’s not really my scene, but I think I might like to see you experience it.”

There’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes, and for a second, I’m not sure I like it. I’m a legal adult, but he’s ten years older than me. Macon would never invite me to a strip club. I’m certain he would consider it inappropriate.

I turn my eyes back out the window, seeing his light still on, something inside of me warming. “I think I’ll be jealous if I go,” I murmur.

“Seeing Trace watch other women dance?” he asks.

I shake my head, looking at him again. “Seeing all of you watch women dance.”

His smile softens, silence stretching between us. After a moment, he lowers his voice. “It’s my one night out. Dex is staying over at the sitter’s. You should come.”

Meaning, he has his room to himself tonight. I glance down at his bracelet like I might be able to tell if that’s the one I squeezed in my fist on the couch that night.

I thought it was Iron, but …

It wasn’t the same.

“May I ask …” I hesitate, but then just go for it. “Who is Dex’s mom?”

His eyes hood, the beautiful green turning gray. “He doesn’t have one.”

I open my mouth, about to rephrase my question, but he knows what I’m asking. If he wanted to answer, he would. “Sorry.”

“Me, too.”

I’m sure I could find out from Liv or Trace, but Army’s message is clear. He’s not talking about her.

He starts to back away. “You should come tonight.”

Everyone starts spilling out of the bar, hopping into cars with their open containers of liquor, and I kind of want to go. All the other women are going.

Removing my apron, I take out my tips from the restaurant and stuff them in my back pocket, following everyone out of the bar.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call out to Iris, not asking if I can leave. The place is almost empty, and it’s her shift to close up.

I walk out into the parking lot, tires sloshing through puddles as people leave, and I catch sight of Army, stopping in his truck and waiting to see what I’m doing. Dallas is in the front seat, Trace and the girl in the back.

But I look away and keep walking, seeing him finally pull away out of the corner of my eye. Off to the strip club without me.

I walk toward the light in the garage. Macon shouldn’t be alone so much.