Knox narrows his gaze. “You see that?” he murmurs.
Yeah. I saw it. And I don’t like it. The bills are crisp. Too crisp. As if they came from somewhere fast and dirty. As if blood money got cleaned up with rubber gloves and regret.
Knox is the first to break the thicker silence. “Where the hell did he get that money?”
I exhale slowly. “I’m wondering the same thing. Him being here will help us figure it out.”
What I don’t say—what I won’t say—is that with Candace here, maybe she’ll start to see we’re not all the monsters she thinks we are. Maybe she’ll start talking to me. Really talking.
I’ve never wanted a woman to talk to me as much as I want her to talk to me.
Usually, it’s simple. A glance, a grin, a few hours of distraction, then done. No strings. No expectations. I don’t chase. I don’t wait.
But with her? Hell, I’d wait all damn day just to hear her say something that isn’t laced with venom.
Yeah, I deserve some of it. I pushed her buttons. Still do. But there’s something more behind the way she looks at me; as if she already decided I’m the villain in her story and doesn’t care to hear the rest.
My thumb scrapes absently against the table’s edge. Waiting. Always waiting. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why her anger toward me feels personal. Why she looks at me as if I’m the one who left her behind. As if I broke something I didn’t even know I was holding.
The worst part?
Even through the sharp words and cold stares… I still fucking want her.
I want the sound of her voice when she’s not using it as a weapon. Need to hear what her laugh sounds like when she’s not on guard. Crave the sight of her hair tangled in my hands, not pulled back to shield herself.
I want her.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.
Chapter 15
Candace
Thesolidcrackofa cue ball colliding with another echoes through the bar. The sound slices the air, clean and sharp, momentarily silencing the low murmur of voices. Maggie sinks another shot with easy confidence, her silver hair shining under the overhead light. Her leather jacket hugs her frame with the ease of a second skin, broken in at the seams and soft in the way only years of rebellion can wear something down. There’s something timeless about her. She seems born to ride hard and love harder.
I used to think she was intimidating. Now I think she’s exactly the kind of woman I want to be. One who owns her space. Her voice. Her choices.
She grins at me. “I can teach you too, honey.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as you.”
“You never know.” She shrugs. “But I guess karate was always your thing.”
The words hit differently than they should. It’s a casual remark, but it lands as strongly as a punch. My throat tightens, breath snagging just enough to notice.
Karate used to be mine. It wasn’t just something I did; it was mine. A place where silence felt sacred, not suffocating. One that was safe. A rhythm I could control when everything else was chaos. The sound of breath. The shape of movement. It made me feel strong, capable, centered.
It was the only thing that ever truly felt mine.
As for music now? The lyrics are scribbled in the margins of receipts and notebooks I never let anyone see. Quiet beats tap out when the noise in my head gets too loud. Little notes live in my chest, always pushing to become something whole again.
But life has a way of stripping you of the things that keep you whole. One bill at a time. One lie at a time.
Sloane raises a brow. “Karate?”
The mention of it coils something sharp in my chest. I nod, managing, “Yeah. I don’t take lessons anymore, but I still train and practice every day.”
I keep the movements alive in the early hours, before shifts or after closing, when the house is quiet and all I can hear are my thoughts scraping against my skull. I go through the forms as if I’m building a wall around myself. Brick by brick, strike by strike. Precision over chaos. Control over collapse.
