by Olivia Chase
Her movements are robotic and slow.
After I’ve slid in, Marissa gets into the tub, and I take her hand and nestle her in front of me, wrapping my arms around her.
“This is going to hurt the bar, isn’t it,” she murmurs.
I grab some soap and lather my hands, running them over her body. Not sexually, but to comfort, to help her come down from the trauma of what she saw. “We’ll bounce back from it.” At least, I hope we will. But deep down, I’m afraid that this is it. Conor’s bold move fucked us over. How can we come back from this kind of event, get our customers to trust that they’re safe with us? Hell, I don’t even know if we are safe at the bar after this.
I feel frustrated and sick. Stuck. What do I do? I can’t go after Conor. That’s insane—a death wish. Butch would be furious if he knew what happened. I gotta get Fugitives going again before word gets back to him about Conor tangling with our family. It could start something bloody and messy.
“We have a few days off,” I tell her. “Let’s forget the bar for a while.” I’ll deal with it later. I can’t even go back in there now until I get the go-ahead. At the moment, Marissa is my main concern.
Her sigh is heavy, and she rests her hands on my knees. The water laps around us with her movement. “I don’t know if I can forget.”
I stroke her hair, both of us wrapped up in our own thoughts, silence stretching out in painful ticks.
I don’t know if I can, either.
Over a week passes until I finally get the call from the detective that they’ve investigated as much as they could and collected evidence. Given the lack of evidence, it’s likely no one will be convicted for the man’s death. It was a professional hit, which I already knew from day one—Conor doesn’t fuck around when it comes to that. His men know their shit.
I leave Marissa at the hotel while my brothers and I go to clean up the mess. I don’t want her around the blood. We’ll get it straightened up before she returns to work.
The bar is a wreck. We just stand in the doorway, staring. Hopelessness pervades my brain. I shake it off. I can’t give up.
“Okay,” I say, “let’s get started.”
Axel puts on music for the background as we clean broken glass, littered all over the floor from when people fled in panic. We mop the sticky floor, sweep and dust and clean. I putty the bullet holes in the wall and touch them up with paint. Toss a couple of broken chairs and rearrange seats as needed.
It’s a hard, back-breaking day of work, but by the time we’re done, I feel better. The place looks back to normal. Ready for customers again. I just pray they come back. When I get back to the hotel, Marissa’s lying on her side, fast asleep. I take a quick shower and crawl in beside her, craving the comfort of her body against mine. It takes me hours to fall asleep, despite how exhausted I am.
We’re going to reopen tomorrow, and I have no idea if people are going to come.
We’ve been open for two hours, and not one person has stepped into Fugitives. Marissa tries to keep herself occupied, but it’s busy work. Axel and Hale aren’t even trying—they gave up half an hour ago and are playing poker at one of the tables.
Every minute that passes adds more weight to my shoulders.
Whatever allure our bare had prior to the violence, it’s gone—and then some. No one is going to risk hanging out in a place where a mafia did a professional style hit.
Doesn’t help that it’s been splashed all over the news, so even people who weren’t here that night know that our bar is the site where it happened.
Not the publicity we needed.
Sure, it was cool to be edgy and dangerous when nothing truly bad had ever happened. People want to feel cool, they like to be around notorious bad guys like Conor…until they see the kind of horrific violence he’s actually capable of.
And then they want to stay as far the fuck away as possible.
A line has been crossed that can’t be uncrossed. We’re totally fucked. And I put us here.
I feel a warm hand touch my shoulder and turn to see Marissa peering at me, a small smile on her face. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. People will come back in eventually,” she says softly.
My only response is to raise a brow. I’m too fucking gutted right now by my mistake to accept her consoling. “Yeah? How long do you think it’ll take for that to happen?”
“We just have to tread water until it does.” She’s trying to be helpful, comforting, but I can’t accept comfort right now. I don’t deserve it. And they’re just empty words anyway. Her positivity can’t fix this.
“We can’t.” My words are short; I can’t stop myself. My bitterness is directed at me, not her, but all of my anger and frustration and fears and anxieties are tangled in a big knot in my stomach. “We don’t have the capital to just ‘tread water’ until we’re saved. We’re going to go under before we can gain our customer base back.”
And I don’t mention how much of that cash flow issue is due to me spending money as quickly as it came in. I thought the gravy train would roll on forever.
Well, boy was I wrong.
I can’t resurrect this bar. It’s as dead as the poor asshole who got shot in here.
I move away from Marissa and step into the office to look over the numbers once more. My whole body is tight with tension. I stare at my laptop, scanning everything. Maybe there’s something I missed. Not likely though. I’ve already been over it a dozen times.
All those expenditures—the hotels, the cars, the fine dining, splashing around with cash like it was going to continue forever—so fucking stupid. The height of stupidity. If I’d saved my money instead of blowing my wad like a jackass, we could have ridden out this rough patch. It might have been tight, sure, but we’d have the time to rebuild our reputation.
Now there’s no time. We’re on the brink of losing everything again. Our cash is wiped out.
Everyone leaves me alone; I hear the occasional word muttered in the main room, but on the whole, it’s quiet. Not one fucking customer shows up tonight. Hours tick by. By eleven, I’m fucking over it. I step out of the office.
“We’re closing for the night,” I murmur. I need time to figure out what to do, if there is even a fix to this, because right now I just want to grab a bottle of Scotch behind the bar and drink until I forget.
Marissa steps toward me, concern all over her face. “I don’t mind staying longer if you want. Maybe someone will show up.”
“Go look in the parking lot,” I tell her flatly. “Not one fucking car other than ours. No one is coming, because we’re a crime scene. We’re wasting money being open.”
She reaches out to touch my cheek, and I flinch automatically, knowing my brothers are here watching. Knowing they’ll be afraid I’m going to go down the same road as our older brothers. She freezes, drops her hand. Her eyes flare with pain. Fuck.
Then her eyes get hooded, and I see her withdraw from me. She steps back and moves away. I know that’s better, it’s what I wanted from her right now to protect our secret, but it feels like a punch in the dick.
No one speaks as we close the bar for the night. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. My brothers have narrowed eyes and cast occasional glances at me. If they suspected anything was between me and her, they know now. And they aren’t happy. We’re not successful anymore. They won’t just turn a blind eye to the situation.
There’s lots of blame to be had now, and it’s all going on my head.
They leave the bar without saying a word to me.
Marissa grabs her purse, tosses on her jacket, and heads to the door. From the way she doesn’t look at me either, I can tell she’s going to stay at her place tonight. I’m not good company right now anyway. I’m afraid if I try to open up and tell her what I’m thinking, I’m never going to be able to tuck all those emotions back in again. I can’t let myself be that out of control.
If I lose control, I’ll have lost everything.
She opens the do
or and leaves. It clicks softly behind her.
I want to run and say something to her, but what can I say? Too many conflicting feelings and thoughts are battering around in my brain.
Fuck it. I grab one of the bottles of Oban, a splurge Scotch that I got back when we had money to spare. If we’re gonna lose our shirts, I might as well enjoy the stock.
I grab a chilled glass from the fridge and pour a heaping helping of the amber liquid. It burns as it slides down my throat in one gulp. I pour another, gulp it, then pour my third and sip on that one. The alcohol is seeping into my system, making me feel languid, loosening the tension I’ve been carrying around for days now.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but right now, I just need to be numb.
Marissa
My head hurts all day. I don’t know if it’s the weather change, my stress, or what. But I’m in a bit of a sour mood when I arrive at Fugitives the next day. I came a half hour early, because Hudson and I need to talk.
I walk in and find him sitting at a stool at the bar, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Did he even go home? As I get nearer, I can see day-old scruff on his face. He’s sipping coffee, staring dead ahead.
I take the stool beside him, worry mingling with my frustration and anger. I know he’s beating himself up over this. But he messed up, and he has to talk about it. “You should have told your brothers about your deal with Conor.”
“I know,” he says evenly, picking up his mug. Still not looking at me.
My heart flutters with anxiety. I press my palms to my thighs. “You’re so closed off. Secretive. No one knows what you’re thinking or feeling.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps sipping his coffee blandly. Like he isn’t thinking or feeling anything at all.
“Dammit, Hudson, can you please look at me?”
With careful moves, Hudson puts his coffee mug down and spins to face me. His eyes are stone, his jaw tight. He might as well be on another continent—I can’t feel him at all. Is he trying to hurt me? Is this his protective shell? I struggle to find words that aren’t simply me lashing out at him, which will only push him away more.
I press the bridge of my nose and sigh. “Look, I’m just trying to talk to you. You’re so hard to reach sometimes. It’s like prying a vault open. I…” I drop my hand and look at him, pleading with my eyes. “I felt you opening up to me before, dropping your guard. I know we were getting closer. But now you’re back to how you were before. No, even worse. Because now it’s like you’re empty inside. I’ve never seen you like this.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you want from me. This is who I am.”
That makes me scoff. “Are you kidding me? You’re pushing me away…again. And after we’ve already gone through this.” I huff a sigh. “Okay, you know what I want from you? I want you to stop holding me at arm’s length. I want you to open up and not close yourself off from me. I’m tired of your secrecy. If we’re going to be together, things need to change.”
His eyes narrow at me. “Are you issuing me an ultimatum, Marissa?”
My lungs tighten at the challenge in his words. Am I? I guess I kind of am. I dodge the question though, not ready to state that outright. Scared of what I might hear in response. “I’m tired of sneaking around with you. I want us to be out in the open. I’m pretty sure your brothers know about us anyway.” I can tell my words are hitting a brick wall. “I deserve better.”
Those last words hit the mark. He tenses, his jaw clenched. “Yeah, you do deserve better. You know what? I think this isn’t a good place for you anymore. You should probably continue on your way, go to California like you planned.”
I feel like I’m falling from an airplane, my stomach lurching with the urge to vomit. He’s dumping me. Dumping me and telling me he doesn’t want me around anymore. I can feel my heart explode into pieces at my feet.
The rejection stings just as much as it did when my family kicked me out.
I’m unwanted. Again.
I tear my gaze away from him. Just keep yourself under control, I chant. Don’t lose it here. At least I have my pride.
I swallow and lift my chin. “You’re right.” I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’ll burst into tears if I do. I dig the car keys out of my purse and toss them on the bar—I’m not taking his damn car. I’ll drive my beater car instead. Maybe he can sell it for money for the bar. I don’t care anymore. I can’t care.
It takes every bit of my strength to get up and walk away from him. I open the door, and the tears start flowing after I latch it closed behind me. I walk to my motel with water-blurred eyes.
I’m not sure he could have hurt me more if he’d tried. When I get in my motel, I sit on the bed in the dark. Feeling alone. Utterly alone.
He’s right. It’s time for me to move on. I’m going to leave Rock Bridge behind. Leave Hudson behind. What a total fool I was, falling in love with a man who could never love me back. Not the way I need him to. I watched my mom settle for scraps of affection from her husband. I’ll never be like that.
Even though it’s ripping me apart to think of leaving him behind.
The tears start flowing again, turning into hiccupping sobs. The pain is so vivid, so stinging, and my chest hurts. I wrap my arms around my knees and cradle myself, crying until I fall asleep on the bed.
I wake up the next morning with puffy eyelids and bruised under-eyes. My sob fest did a shit job on my poor face. I splash water on my face and then take a shower. Echoes of Hudson are everywhere in this motel room. I remember him holding me in here, kissing the back of my neck. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to go. I can’t stay here any longer.
But I have some errands to run today. I eat a small meal, my stomach too ill for me to do more than pick at a piece of toast. I gather up all the clothes he paid for—I can’t keep them. I don’t want them. I’ll take them to Goodwill, where someone else can get use of them.
I take my car to get it checked over before my long drive. I want to get as far away from Rock Bridge as I can before stopping. The leaves are starting to change colors, swaying hard in the autumn breeze. At least it’ll be a pretty drive, I tell myself. I pick up some takeout Chinese and return to the motel, curling up in my favorite PJs.
My phone buzzes. It’s Suzie, sending me a text. I’m half tempted to ignore it, because I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. But Suzie is a friend. I could use one right now, when I’m feeling so alone.
I see there’s a picture attached with the text. I open it—it’s her left hand with a sparkling diamond on her ring finger.
OMFG HE POPPED THE QUESTION!!!!! the text reads.
I’m both elated for her and sad for myself, and I feel extremely selfish making this about me for even one second. So I type back, Rich is a smart guy. CONGRATS! <3 I’m so happy for you two. I want an invite to the wedding!!
We chat back and forth about her tentative plans. I’m so thrilled for her, I genuinely am. She and Rich have been dating for two years now. He’s devoted, loving, and kind, and he makes her smile. He loves her beyond reason and isn’t shy about showing her that.
I tell myself it’s okay that the conversation is making me cry a little. I’ll pretend they are happy tears. I refuse to have a pity party over someone who doesn’t want me around. I will not be that girl.
The night passes slowly. I watch reruns on the small flat-screen TV in front of my bed. No one comes by to say anything to me. Not that I’m surprised. This time it seemed pretty final. And I just can’t let him hurt me again, even if he did decide to come talk to me. The push/pull dynamic is too much to handle. So I guess it’s good that it’s over.
I drift off to sleep on my bed, startled when my phone rings late at night. Who is calling me at this hour? I glance at the display.
And my stomach does a massive flip when I see who it is.
“Uh. Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Hi, Marissa,” Mom says in a low whisper.
I’m so
stunned I don’t know what else to say. Why is she calling me? She never replied to my text when I first moved here. So I just sit on my bed, not speaking.
Mom clears her throat delicately. “Um. Is this a bad time? Did I wake you?”
“It’s fine. Is something wrong?” Maybe someone is sick and that’s why she’s calling me.
“No, no, nothing is wrong. Everything’s going great. Stanley got a raise at work last week, so we had meatloaf to celebrate. He loves meatloaf.”
I draw in a steadying breath. Did she call me to talk about my shit-heel stepdad? I do not have the patience or energy for that right now. Stupid me, I actually thought she wanted to, oh, see how I was or something. “Yeah. I should go.”
“I…” There’s a long pause, and the sound of her muffling the phone as she talks in the background. Then she comes back. “So where are you now?”
“I’m still in Rock Bridge.” My words are flat. “Leaving tomorrow.”
“Well, drive safe, and watch the weather.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s a bitter sound that erupts from me. “Seriously? Months have gone by. Literally months. This is the first time you’ve called me, and all you want to tell me is about Stanley’s fucking raise and to watch the weather?”
“Marissa,” she says sharply. “Watch your language.”
“I’m not going to let you hurt me anymore,” I tell her. “You chose him over me. I deserve better than that.” The words echo so closely to what I said to Hudson that my heart squeezes. “I wish you guys the best. If you ever want to have a real relationship with me, one involving mutual effort that isn’t all one-sided, call me. But I can’t do this. Not right now.” My voice breaks. “Not when…” Oh, God, I didn’t want to cry. My eyes are burning and I sniffle.
“Marissa. I…I didn’t choose him over you. That’s not it at all.” She sounds hurt.
