I finish my drink, set the glass down with a quiet click that barely echoes over the pulsing bass vibrating through the walls. The dancers keep moving, the men keep leering, and Xavier’s already slipped out, cutting through the smoke-hazed room like a ghost who never belonged to the living in the first place.
I rise, rolling my shoulders once as I slide my coat back into place. The leather creaks faintly — an old, familiar sound — as I move through the floor. Eyes glance my way, but no one holds my gaze for long. Raiders know better than to look too long at someone like me.
The bouncer at the door — some overgrown kid trying to look tougher than he is — steps aside without a word as I approach. I can feel the weight of his nervous stare as I pass.
The door groans open on rusted hinges, and the music dulls behind me as I step into the night. Cold air cuts across my face like a blade, sharp and clean compared to the rot inside. The door thuds shut behind me, sealing the heat and noise away.
The alley stretches ahead, narrow and cracked, littered with broken glass and the stink of oil pooling under the static lights from the club. Xavier’s there already, a thin line of smoke rising from his cigarette, his silhouette waiting like a promise.
I slip my hands into my coat pockets and step closer, the crunch of gravel under my boots the only announcement. He doesn’tflinch, doesn’t turn. Just exhales a stream of smoke and says, flat, "You follow all your marks this close, doc?"
“Cigarettes are bad for you.” My voice is calm, dry as I slip a joint out of my coat pocket and lean forward against the wall.
Xavier finally glances at me, hazel eyes cutting sharp under the shadows. He smirks around the cigarette. "So is serial killing."
I snort, can’t help it. “Touché.”
He flicks ash off the end of his smoke, studying me like a cat studies a mouse it hasn’t decided whether to toy with or kill. After a moment, he slides his lighter out of his pocket and lights my joint for me.
“Why’d you send me gasoline?”
I meet his gaze, unblinking. “Whiskey’s good for the spirit.”
He huffs a soft, humorless laugh. "Good for the fire too."
“That depends on what you plan on burning.” I smirk, taking a long pull, allowing the smoke to burn its way across my chest.
He watches me for a moment longer, smoke pooling in the cold air between us. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—amusement or calculation, I can’t tell. “How are you burning me this time?”
“Nothing like a slow one, ain’t it?” The smoke bellows from my nostrils. “Your brother is fucking with a girl I am exceptionally fond of.”
“Fond?” Xavier quirks a smile, teeth flashing under the streetlight. He takes a lazy drag off his cigarette, but his eyes stay sharp.
“You guys killed her pseudo-father,” I drone, filling my lungs again, letting the familiar high lace through my blood, steadying the rising pulse beneath my ribs. Beckoning me forward.
“I wouldn’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Do you understand that I will put your brother down like the dog he is?”
Xavier snarls — something primal flashing behind his pretty-boy mask. “Not before I do.”
The space between us tightens, the air heavier now, thick with everything unsaid. Our shoulders nearly brush as we step in closer, neither of us willing to blink first.
I can feel his breath now — sharp, clipped — as his hand flexes at his side. One movement too fast and this could go bad. Fast.
But I keep my voice low, steady. "I let you pass when they killed Kelly." My jaw tightens as I feel the name drop between us like weight. "But now someone is going to pay. You. Marcus. Asher. Isaiah — pick one."
At the sound of their names, Xavier’s lip twitches again, but this time, there’s less amusement in it. His voice drops to something darker.
"You must be more than fond of this girl."
I smile then — cold, mechanical, like the reflex of an old wound pulling tight. The kind of smile you wear when you're toeing the edge of something sharp, knowing full well you might slip. My mind lingers on his words for half a beat — more than fond. What would that even mean?
I turn it over like a specimen under glass, studying it from every angle. Am I capable of it? Of that kind of softness? When did Jasmine go from a point of interest to a person of fondness? When did she become a person I want to protect?
My tongue runs over the curve of my lip, and I roll my shoulders back looking through his foggy gaze. I won't give Xavier the satisfaction of knowing the spiral he has just unlocked in me. Instead, I hold his gaze and say, flat and deliberate, “His name was Tommy. Ring a bell?”
Xavier’s face hardens, and he takes a slow step back, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “That wasn’t us.”
