But of course!
He asks, "What's yours?"
I shake my head, then blurt out, "Marks."
"So… what's it gonna be Lila Marks?"
I want to say yes. Every cell in my body is screaming for it. But cells are idiots. They also crave sugar and alcohol and other things that destroy you.
"I can't." I force the words out. "Thanks, but no."
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment maybe, but he doesn't push. Just nods once.
"Offer stands. If you change your mind."
"I won't."
He leaves a twenty for a ten-dollar whiskey and walks out without looking back. I tell myself the hollow feeling in my chest is relief, not regret.
It's almost convincing.
7
DANE
Islide into my Charger, metal door slamming with a satisfying thud that matches my mood. The dashboard clock reads 11:42. Two fucking days. Two days of telling myself to stay away from that bar, from her—and for what? To crash and burn like an asshole.
The engine growls to life, and I pull into the empty street, Manhattan's lights smearing across my windshield like running mascara. I check my watch to double check—a habit from deployment I can't shake. As if time matters right now. As if anything does.
I laugh at myself, the sound hollow in the confined space. What did I expect? That she'd bat those green eyes and say, "Why yes, mysterious stranger who beat three men unconscious, I'd love to have dinner with you"? Christ.
The Charger hugs a corner too fast, tires protesting. There's comfort in the machine's response—predictable, reliable. Unlike people. Unlike me, apparently, losing my goddamn mind over some bartender with sad eyes.
I've taken down cartel enforcers, tracked cheating billionaires through five countries, and stared down the barrels of guns held by men who'd kill their own mothers. Yet… I'm thrown by a simple rejection from a woman I barely know.
"Pathetic," I mutter, accelerating through a yellow light.
The city at midnight is a beast feeding on itself: drunks stumbling into cabs, dealers making corner exchanges, couples fighting or fucking against brick walls. Human entropy in action. We're all just broken pieces colliding, pretending we're whole.
I check my watch again. Twelve minutes since I walked out of the bar. Twelve minutes of wrestling the urge to turn around.
My father once told me, "Wolfe men don't chase women who run from them." One of the few true things that ever came out of his mouth. Or is it?
I take the long way home, letting the night air blast through my cracked window. It smells like rain and exhaust—like reality. Whatever fantasy I'd built about Lila Marks deserves to die in that cold wind.
I am Dane fucking Wolfe. I don't need green eyes and freckles and that slight rasp in her voice when she says my name.
Tomorrow, I'll be smarter. Tomorrow, I'll be who I've always been.
Alone.
I check my watch again, going around another block. I tell myself I'm just heading home after driving around for an hour. Just happens to be through this neighborhood. Just happens to be at 12:58 a.m.
Just happens to be that I park across from The Old Haunt.
"This is fucked up," I mutter, killing the engine but keeping my hands on the wheel like it might save me from myself. Rain starts pattering against the windshield, distorting the bar's neon sign into bleeding colors.
I'm not waiting for her. I'm not following her. I'm a private investigator taking a goddamn break between surveillance shifts. That's the story I'm selling myself as I check my watch for the hundredth time.
