Just over twenty-four hours after Daze stopped me from jumping, and everything I suppressed comes rushing back. I miss the quiet, sterile walls of Salvation. I miss Father’s stern words of encouragement and his aversion to cursing.
I miss the numbness of missing Hale but never knowing why he might have hurt himself. I thought answers would bring me clarity, but it’s been the opposite.
I’ve only found more questions, and I’m not sure I want them explained.
“Let’s get this shit over with,” the man beside me hisses. I shoot him a wary glance. An unfamiliar note has crept into his voice. It makes him sound harsher. Meaner. Like…
Well, like the criminal poster child he appears to be. He seems committed to the role—like any “bad boy” cliché, he even owns a motorcycle. It sits outside in the alley just beyond the gym. I don’t have much experience with such machines, but his is matte black, with white and silver details painted on the body—a fitting ride for a man who thrives in sin.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Princess,” he scoffs, noticing my raised eyebrow and the hands placed on my hips. “This baby rides like a dream. Even in that outfit, you don’t compare.”
To counter him, someone whistles nearby, and I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious. Dressed like this, standing on a street corner could unintentionally ask for a whole world of trouble.
Much like the man already wreaking chaos in my life. He breathes trouble.
And yet, I can’t stop inhaling whatever poison he chooses to exhale.
“You ever ride before?” he wonders from over his shoulder.
I shudder with apprehension—and not entirely because of the prospect of riding on the back of a dangerous vehicle. In the waning daylight, the cut on his head looks even worse. He didn’t bother to change from his ratty clothes, and together we make quite the picture. He found a pair of heels in his mystery box of women’s clothing to go along with my dress and wig. Balancing on stilettos was never my forte, sober or otherwise. I can’t even imagine what Nanna might think to see me now.
She’d go to Covenant and pray.
“Earth, to the princess.” Daze snaps his fingers before my nose.
“Of course not,” I say, sensing that he already knew as much.
Rather than issue a taunt, he tosses me a helmet that had been previously dangling from one of the bike’s handles. “Here.”
He comes up behind me as I wrestle it on over my wig. “You wanna do this in the front or the back?” he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. “Though, something tells me you don’t enjoy doing anything from behind.”
My cheeks flame at the memory of the stunt he pulled in the bathroom. I’m unsure what extent he would have gone to if I didn’t stop him. “Enough joking,” I snap. Ducking out of his reach, I straddle the edge of the seat unassisted. “Just drive, or whatever you do with this thing.”
“As you wish.” Laughing, he mounts the bike from the front. Then he reaches for my hand, coaxing my fingers to palm his stomach, alarmingly close to his pelvis. “Just make sure you hold on tight.”
I’m blushing, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. Vrrrom! The next second, the bike roars to life beneath us, and there’s no choice but to wrap my arms around his waist or fall off.
“Hold on,” I hear him warn above the grinding growl of the engine.
Gritting my teeth, I reposition my hands, squeezing him even harder. An unsettling realization creeps in as my body seems to relax into him against my will. Fire sizzles beneath my skin, but it doesn’t feel painful—the way I suspect hellfire should. My life has been one sermon after the other on the perils of sin, but the truth is… I can’t deny the feeling his nearness alone gives me. He gives me.
A wild, thrilling, electric feeling.
Maybe he’s my punishment, created solely to tempt me to sin…
And to make me relish every act of corruption on my way down to Hell.
Our current surroundings reinforce that comparison—this part of Westpoint City is a perfect allegory for Hell. Father always warned me against venturing to the “bad side of town.” Even as a child, the irony wasn’t lost on me. He praised the downtrodden parts of the city and touted his work with the less fortunate. Hale and I volunteered for his charity, meeting people from all walks of life.
But in private, he referred to those same areas as slums filled with criminals and deadbeats who might corrupt my poor, innocent soul.
They call it the wrong side of the tracks for a reason, Frances. Once you’re there, there’s only one way to get back—but it’s not so easy if a train is coming.
He was right—only Hale’s death was that train, and contrary to Father’s belief, I’m not looking back.
I’d probably fall off the bike if I did.
Reckless speed makes for a heart-stopping trip through the city at the height of rush-hour traffic. Without care for safety, or something mundane like laws, Daze weaves in and out of lanes like Hale would when playing one of his stupid video games.
Without fear of death.
“Think you can slow down?” I practically scream into his neck as a bus careens dangerously close to our path.
If he hears me, he doesn’t react. Instead, he cuts across four lanes to make a right turn. Thunk! The engine cuts off a second later, throwing me against him.
“Easy, baby,” I hear him grunt as he stabilizes the bike near a rack containing at least five other motorcycles. “Don’t wreck the merchandise.”
The flat of his palm lands over my thigh, and I just stare at it. I’ll never get over how lethal a collection of muscle and bone can seem when shaped into hands like his—and yet how gentle they can feel on me. In me…
“Earth to Frey,” Daze warns.
Startled, I scoot back and nearly fall. Only by steadying one of my ridiculous heels against the ground can I maintain my balance.
“Now look...” Daze stands, shaking out his newly-cut hair. His eyes draw my attention, darker than they were before we left. His posture is tenser too, and he doesn’t look at me directly, even as I yank off his helmet and dump it on the seat of the bike. “The world in there isn’t like your little church.”
He jerks his chin to a brick building about a block down. It looks like a warehouse at first glance, but there’s no sign or display to give any clue as to what lies within.
“The men inside might not be as polite as your parishioners,” he adds, eyeing his knuckles. “Do some shit that may turn your delicate little stomach. Think you can handle that?”
This time, the jokes don’t have that biting sense of humor tainting them. His eyes don’t sparkle. His mouth holds that serious, firm line that makes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
He’s serious.
“And you’ve been such a gentleman so far,” I choke out.
“I have, haven’t I?” He flashes a real grin. His eyes rove downward, and his tongue traces his lower lip in a slow, disconcerting motion. I suck in a breath. It’s like he knew where my thoughts had drifted seconds prior.
And they eagerly head there again. I can’t help it. His eyes do something strange when his attention turns to that vulgar, taboo subject. Sex. It makes it harder to breathe—impossible to think of anything else.
He distracts me so much that the rest of the world has to fight for my attention. A honking horn does the trick, and I turn to the road. Even on this back street, traffic runs at a steady pace, and a passing yellow school bus draws my attention.
“Sammy,” I blurt. “Don’t you have to pick him up from school?”
“Lyra’s got it.” His palm graces the seat of his bike as if saying goodbye to the thing, then he turns and heads up the street, leaving me to follow.
“You’re not even going to call her and check?” Poor Sammy. I picture his face, streaked with tears, as he stares at an empty school parking lot. “Shouldn’t you—”
“I know,” Daze insists, waving me off. “She’s got him. That’s the game she plays. She’ll let me get a fucking taste, then hold him hostage for a week. No contact. No picking him up from school. Nothing. The next time she wants something, she’ll dangle visitation again. Rinse and fucking repeat.”
The muscles in his arms quiver with tension—a brief crack in his carefree facade. I’ve written him off as a selfish deadbeat. Maybe I still should. But...
There’s more there. He’s so much like Hale the comparison stings—they both enjoy keeping secrets from me.
And they both have a way of getting under my skin.
“Knowing that, you sure spent a lot of time with him,” I counter. I know what it’s like to have absentee parents. “Don’t you think—”
“Don’t.” Daze stops so suddenly I stagger against his back. “Don’t act like you know how the fuck I feel about my own damn kid because you don’t. I’d die for him. Hell, as things stand now, I might as well be dead. He’d be better off.”
The coldness in his tone chills the air in my lungs. I can’t find anything to say. Then, I manage to croak out something. “I’m sorry.”
“We don’t talk about your shit, and you don’t talk about mine. Got it?” He looks back to see me nod once. “Good. Let’s go.”
We continue in silence and quickly draw near the warehouse. Up close, I’m caught off guard by how unassuming it looks. There are no lights in the dusty windows. No noise drifting from beyond the walls. No sign proclaiming “Debauchery Within.” Rather than approach the metal doors I assume serve as the entrance, Daze cuts through an alley and sidesteps a dumpster overflowing with trash. There’s another door on this end. When he raps on it with a fist, it opens from inside.
“Oh fuck. Not you.” A man wearing a leather jacket and jeans bars the doorway. He eyes me up and down before turning his attention to Daze, who suddenly lingers in my wake. Baring his teeth, he spits on the pavement. Is this the man we’ve come here to provoke? “You again?”
“Me again?”
I turn. That voice sounded familiar. Daze—only about two octaves deeper than he usually speaks. Standing tall, he meets the man’s gaze without flinching. They eye each other for a second. Two. Sighing, the stranger finally steps aside.
“Chris can’t protect you this time. I bet my ass that Silas will show up in less than five minutes. You should clear out, Day. Most of us have no beef with you, but… Rules are rules, and you’re persona non grata after that stunt you pulled.”
“Thanks for the warm welcome,” Daze replies coldly. “Now, let us in.”
For a second, it looks like the man won’t budge. Then he shrugs. “It’s your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.” Daze grabs my wrist, steering me inside ahead of him. It’s dark and dank. My nostrils itch with a moldy stench that reminds me of how the city sometimes smells when it rains. Damp, drenched dreams mixed with the faintest hint of cigarette smoke.
“Watch your step.” Daze reaches past me, opening what I assume is a door. Just like at his gym, his hand finds my hip next to guide me down. A part of me latches onto the contact. It means it was an act, right? He isn’t that cold, hard person I just caught a glimpse of.
Not entirely.
As we descend, orange light floods in, revealing a wide, spacious room. There’s a bar at one end, lined with stools. Across from it are a few pool tables. It’s not the den of vice I pictured.
“What is this place—”
“Not yet,” Daze warns.
The back of my neck prickles, picking up on his unease. He’s as edgy as he was the day he led me across town to his gym. As if any minute he expects an attack. As a result, he’s closer, running his lips along my neck. The touch doesn’t convey the same electric tension I felt in the bathroom. In this instance, he reminds me of a dog, guarding his favorite bone while surrounded by potential rivals. He’s possessive of me, and it feels strange to acknowledge that.
But it shouldn’t feel…good.
“Don’t worry,” he says near my ear. “This isn’t the hard part. We’ve got to plant a little bait first.”
“What?” I crane my neck to look back, but his expression reveals nothing when it comes to his motive. Bait?
Confused, I put my focus into scanning our surroundings. With every new observation, a ball of dread in my belly grows tighter. Painful. I try to picture Hale here, mingling with these hostile people. Breathing in air tinged with cigarette smoke and deafening music.
I can’t quite envision it. No matter how bitter and angry he became, he’d never fit in here. Not like Daze does, bulldozing his way fearlessly through the crowd.
I’m tempted to break his rule by asking a question. “Why are we—”
“Keep close and stay quiet,” he hisses, his eyes fixed ahead. “I’ll do the talking.”
The order alone isn’t what makes my mouth snap shut—it’s his tone, conveying an authority he didn’t even utilize around his own son. Intrigued, I follow his gaze to a man leaning on a pool cue against the back wall. His black leather jacket seems out of place in the casual surroundings, as does his harsh smile.
“Daze,” he calls over the music. “For the love of God, you got a death wish? You could use a gun, you know?” He mimes one with his free hand and pulls the pretend trigger, aiming his forefinger at his skull. “It’s quicker and would make a hell of a lot less mess than having to peel you off my goddamn floors every night.”
“And what, Chris?” Daze asks, lifting his arms into the air. “Spare you bitches the fucking show? No way.”
“You always were insane, even before you went away.” Chris scoffs and aims his cue at a row of balls neatly lined on the pool table. He strikes, sending them in every which direction. “Not that I used to complain. It made you a damn good leader. But now?” He looks up, meeting Daze’s gaze, and laughs at what he finds. “You’re even more fucked up now than you were then. Usually, power is what corrupts most men. Not ‘freedom.’ Though, you always did have a way of making a mess, even when you were on the straight and narrow.”
“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” Daze quips with a maniacal smile—but his voice still has that sharp edge to it, and the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Once I have a nice little chat with Silas, I bet you won’t see me around here for a long, long time.”
“Silas.” Chris narrows his eyes and places the bumper of his cue stick against the floor. “When I heard you were back in town, I was stupid enough to hope you had changed your mind.”
“What?” Daze says, raising an eyebrow. “You mean to say you all aren’t better off without me, frolicking in the sunshine?”
Chris doesn’t crack a smile in return. “No. We aren’t. Don’t pretend like you haven’t heard the rumors. About who Silas has been working for, dragging the Saints into his mess. I’m sure that’s why you’re really here, but you’d be a fool to go against him alone. The kind of men pulling his strings have more power than you can imagine and enough wealth to make even the police look the other way. Though, if you were looking to get back into the fold… That could change things.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daze says, matching his serious expression. “I’m just passing through.”
“You’re playing with fire, Day,” Chris says, an eyebrow slightly raised. “You were always a reckless punk, but suicidal? I never took you as such.”
I can’t escape the suspicion that the majority of their conversation is transpiring beyond their words. It’s all in the steady way Chris maintains their eye contact for only a few seconds before turning away, a frown tugging at his mouth.
“Coming here tonight was a mistake,” he reiterates. “You may have stepped down, but he’s not going to stop until you’re dead, you know,” he mutters, crossing his arms. I notice the same patch on his jacket sleeve that Ben wears—the skull with wings. “That son of a bitch can’t let it go. You gave up everything, and he still isn’t satisfi—”
“Let’s not get sappy, Chris. Besides, if I’m going to die tonight, I’ll need a drink. Or several. And one for my friend.” He slams his hand on my shoulder, nearly knocking me over. “But make hers a virgin. She’s a sloppy drunk.”
I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved by the request. I’ve never sipped anything other than the wine served at Covenant events as part of the holy service.
“If you say so.” Chris gives me a final once over before crossing to the bar and grabbing three glasses from behind the counter. He slams them onto the surface and fills two with brown liquid from a glass bottle. The last one he tops off with water. “For the lady,” he says, sliding the glass toward me.
“And for the men.” Daze grabs both glasses and clinks them together. Then he downs both, one after the other, wincing at the taste. “Fuck, that shit is strong, Chris.” He coughs, slamming a fist against his chest. “You trying to finish me off, yourself?”
Laughing, Chris retreats to the other side of the bar. “Silas would pay me handsomely if I did,” he calls back. “Watch yourself, Day. I’m sure he’s already on his way.”
Instantly, Daze’s smile falls, and he tilts his chin toward me. “It’s only a matter of time. Just follow my lead and trust me. Please.”
I stiffen at his unease. “What are you talking about?”
I look over at Chris, but he’s out of view, presumably having gone into a back room.
“I’m talking about answers, Frey. You want to know what Hale was looking into? Well, the Saints are part of it. I’m sure you figured that out, though.”
Because he’d lied about Hale’s drawing meaning nothing to him. It was a clue. But why would my brother be interested in what seems to be a criminal outfit?
“Look—” Daze shoves both empty glasses across the counter, but he’s even stiffer now. Anticipation radiates from him in steady, unsettling waves. He’s waiting for something, but the caution doesn’t seem directed at Chris.
Perhaps at this unspoken figure who supposedly will be lured out by our mere presence.
“This could take a while. In the meantime, ask me what you want. I’ll do my best to answer it. First, play along. Lean in but don’t make it obvious.”
He taps his throat with a finger in a silent command. Nervously, I lean forward and press my lips right by his pulse point. In the back of my mind, I understand his reasoning—to anyone watching, it must look like a playful kiss—not a stomach-churning moment before I finally get the answers I’ve been craving.
Impatient, I start with what should be a simple mystery for him to solve, “How did you know Hale?” I murmur against his skin. In spite of everything, his taste worms onto my tongue—musk and sweat. It isn’t revolting, though, and I don’t clamp my lips in disgust. My tongue dampens instead. Good Lord, no one on earth should taste so good.
“He came looking for me,” he mutters back. “I don’t know how he found my name, but he offered me cash to help him out.”
My eyes widen. “Help him with what?”
“A little mystery he wanted to solve,” he says cryptically. “He needed my expertise to navigate a rougher part of town compared to where your fancy church is. In the end, I think he found way more than he bargained for.”
It’s an ominous statement, but it’s also too vague—like there’s more he hasn’t said. “What aren’t you telling me?”
With a sigh, he shifts to face me and fingers part of my wig, playing with the synthetic strands. Finally, he inclines his head. “What do you know about what he might have been into, your brother?”
“Drugs,” I say softly. “It all spiraled out of control maybe six months ago. Father disowned him and kicked him out of the house.”
His eyes narrow. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. “Drugs. That’s what he told you, anyway.”
“Hale wouldn’t talk to me,” I insist. “What else could he have—”
“Time’s up.” He cocks his head, his eyes steel.
I frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Then I hear it. A hush falls through the boisterous crowd, heralding the arrival of a man with wild dark-brown hair and cold brown eyes. I can make out the color from across the room—they’re that vibrant. Piercing. He targets the brunt of his gaze in our direction, and it seems as though the crowd melts away until he and Daze have nothing but space between them.
“Keaton,” the man says by way of greeting. He’s tall, about the same height as Daze. He wears a leather jacket paired with dark jeans and a black shirt, but the outfit merely enhances the danger wafting from him. “You have some damn nerve showing up here,” he bellows, his voice easily reaching throughout the room.
“Hello to you too, Silas,” Daze calls back. He’s still hunched over the bar, both of his hands in fists. White knuckles betray just how tightly he has them clenched. I don’t know whether to stay or retreat the way everyone else has. I must make a move to stand because Daze looks my way and shakes his head once. Stay. Spinning on his stool, he faces Silas directly. “I thought I might be able to make amends.”
“After all that high and mighty bullshit you spewed, you still come crawling back on your hands and knees.” Silas’ voice is soft but no less threatening than my father’s when he’s in the midst of a powerful sermon. Every word rings with unmistakable influence. Power. “You’ve always been a jackass, Day, but desperate? That’s not like you.”
With visible swagger, he approaches the counter from the far end, his arms crossed. The closer he comes, the easier it is to make out the planes of his face, in addition to his eyes. He’s older than Daze, I’d guess, maybe mid-thirties. A fresh bruise overlaps a jagged scar that cuts across his right cheek, distorting features that would otherwise be attractive. Now, a corner of his mouth is crooked, as though he’s permanently smirking.
“How much do you need this time? Or are you on another bender, and you’re too damn high to know when you’re treading into dangerous territory?”
“Maybe both,” Daze replies, his cocky nature on full display. “Enough to sweeten the memory of sending my fist through your skull the other night.” Unfurling to his full height, he stands. “Allow me to make amends. I know for a fact you don’t have an excess of fighters. Let me in one round tonight, and my girl will watch. We can call it a truce of sorts. No reason for violence.”
“A truce?” Silas cocks his head, his gaze cold. “Oh, no, Day. Traitors aren’t entitled to mercy. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve turned your back on the brotherhood entirely. You want to ‘make amends.’ Start by leaving town like you swore you would.”
“I will, but after one last fight. Name your terms,” Daze says, unconcerned by the refusal. “Any stakes you want. One final fight to end things properly. No mess. No grudges.”
“Any stakes,” Silas murmurs, rubbing his chin. He’s drawing out every second on purpose, toying with time. Finally, he shrugs. “Since you were so hellbent on leaving, I want you gone by morning. I want you to stay the hell away from this city—you forfeit everything. Though let’s be honest, you gave it up months ago. Isn’t that right?”
“And that’s all you want?” Daze scoffs. “I thought you’d be greedier than that, Silas. Here I am on my hands and knees, and all you want is to kick me while I’m down. I was sure you’d go for the jugular instead.”
“In good time.” Silas smiles. “On second thought, there is one small thing I want to add. Whether you win or lose, you stay the hell away from my nephew. He doesn’t need you bouncing in and out of his life whenever you feel like playing the role of father.”
I struggle to hide my reaction. Suddenly the hostility between the two men makes sense. This is Sammy’s uncle and the man that Daze supposedly attacked on Lyra’s doorstep.
“Oh, I got it.” Daze shakes his head, chuckling. “Let me tell you what will really happen—you can have whatever toys you want to play king. Take my position, take the power, take my money. I don’t fucking care. But you stay the hell away from Sammy and Lyra. You got that?” Suddenly, he’s closer, though Silas doesn’t shy away. They stand toe to toe, the visual representation of light and dark. Yin and Yang.
Where Silas is unnerving calm, Daze is all burning rage. “I mean it. Go near him again, and I will fucking kill you,” he snarls.
“Oh?” Silas’ eyes widen in mock surprise. “Just like you killed his mother?”