S I N C I T Y

⸻ Anouk had no clue how Vegas looked at night. Not until arriving there. She embraced herself as he answered her. The Dutch blonde pondered for a second or two before admitting her new reality… ❛ I live in my car. That's why I asked it. ❜ Her cheeks were getting redder by the second, not only from the cold she felt, but also from the shyness. It is just a matter of time to find somewhere to stay. One of her friends offered his place, but she does not want to be a burden to anyone.

Upon his question, another blush. She made a mental note not drink that much, or use drugs ( despite it being the first time she was trying ) . ❛ I ⏤ I am looking for my car. I drank a little too much today. ❜ She says, embarrassed, unable to face Mo. She wished she had a better dressing plan.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, after a beat. Not judgment. Just acknowledgment. “That’ll explain the parking question.”

The cold snapped again through the open space, and he shifted, angling himself so the wind hit his back instead of hers. Subtle. Deliberate. He didn’t offer a coat he didn’t have to spare, but he did offer proximity like it cost him nothing.

“Okay,” Mo went on, voice practical, grounding. “If you drank too much, we’re not playing hide-and-seek with a car tonight. That’s how you wake up with a citation or no car at all.” His gaze swept the street again, then the darker stretch beyond the lights. “Vegas is forgiving about a lot of things. DUI and towing are not among them.”

Her question earned a short huff of a laugh. “Long enough to know which mistakes not to make,” he said. He glanced back at her then, really looking—not prying, but measuring how steady she actually was on her feet. “Here’s the trick you’re asking for, Anouk: if you don’t know where your car is, you don’t go looking alone and you don’t go driving once you find it. You get somewhere warm first. Then you sort the rest out in daylight.”

A pause. He didn’t frame it as charity. Didn’t soften it with false reassurance.

“There’s a diner two blocks down that never closes and doesn’t care how you ended up there,” Mo added, nodding down the street. “Coffee’s bad, heat’s good, and nobody’s going to rush you out. If you want directions—or company until your hands stop shaking—I can manage that much.” He tipped his head, leaving the decision squarely with her. “Your call.”

He let it hang there between her fingers for a beat longer than necessary, eyes flicking to it only once before lifting back to her face. Not dismissive. Assessing. He didn’t doubt she’d follow through if he let her—but he’d learned a long time ago that problems like Hale rarely needed that kind of ending. Messy solutions had a way of staining everyone involved.

“An invitation,” he allowed mildly. “Just not one I’d accept.”

His gaze shifted, just briefly, toward the crowd again—toward where Hale might still be basking in his own cleverness. “Hotel rooms create witnesses. Loose ends. Stories that grow legs.” A pause. “I prefer my corrections quieter.” When his attention returned to her, it softened by a fraction—not warmth, exactly, but consideration. “You did your part. More than adequately. That’s where this ends for you.”

Her disappointment drew the faintest curve of his mouth. Not quite a smile. “I’ve always known what you’re worth, Renata,” he said evenly. “I just don’t advertise my appreciation in public.” His eyes dipped, briefly, to the line of her throat at the mention of a necklace, then back up—intentional, not indulgent.

“As for fixing your hurt feelings?” He angled closer, voice low, private. “We’ll call tonight a reassessment.” A beat. “The next time I come to The Fox Den,” he continued, “you won’t wonder whether I’ve taken note. And you won’t need to ask.”

He reached out then—not to her, but to gently nudge the hotel key back toward her clutch with two fingers. “Shopping can be arranged,” he added calmly. “But not as payment. As acknowledgment.”

His tone cooled just slightly, steel under silk. “And when I give gifts, they’re not suggestions. They’re statements.”

He straightened, public posture sliding back into place as easily as a jacket over his shoulders.

“Finish your drink,” he said. “Enjoy the party.”

Then, quieter—just for her. “You’ve already made it worth my night.”

Her fingers curled around the key as she slid it back into her clutch. She wouldn't use it. At least not for its intended purpose. If anything, she'd slip in at night and steal his wallet before disappearing, but even that felt like too much work.

"I look forward to seeing you back there then." She said with a small smile. This had proven to be a fun change that she hated to admit she thoroughly enjoyed. Hopefully he'd see her benefit to these sort of things and gaining information on a setting that was outside of a strip club.

Her gaze flicked to the drink and back at him, placing a hand upon his hand. "I'm pleased I could do that. I'll see you soon." Her finger squeezed his before she turned and walked off. It was better that they split after everything that was going to go down in the following days. The last thing she wanted was to be interviewed because she'd been seen with the victim or a suspect.

bambi , it was a name he hadn't heard in a long while , not since they'd last stood in the same room , not since that distant memory blurred into a sea of other distant memories . how long had it been since he'd really seen her ? since her teasing tone had been a language he knew by heart , one that used to wrap warmth around his chest instead of squeezing it like a vice . there hadn't been a reason to joke with her in a long , long time . not since she left him alone in that house . not since she never came back , except for the day their brother had died .

the thought struck him , quietly , slowly , as it always did . their brother's death had been just another tally on the long ledger of abandonments . it hadn't cut deep enough to bring tears , those had dried up years ago , back when distance carved itself between the siblings as though it had always belonged there .

mandatory health leave , it sounded serious , serious enough that he should have asked . instead , he only shifted on his feet , brows knitting as he watched her , as he listened to the familiar , persistent teasing she used to fill the silence . but when she mentioned the iron horse , his expression changed . the frown collapsed into a flash of anger . the reminder of who owned that place , who frequented it , slashed open the memory of the family his brother had traded them for . the family that had ultimately became his undoing .

osian's gaze flickered , for a moment , to the digit that tapped against her cup . he knew the tell , had seen it a hundred times , but he made no comment . not now , not with the canyon still widening between them . he let the silence settle , heavy and deliberate , because opening his mouth risked unleashing words he couldn't take back . she had made her choice , leaving in the middle of the night , choosing another as her new family , just as their brother had . still , some part of him clawed at his ribs , begging to be restrained .

the silence persisted , right up until she made the fatal mistake of mentioning their house . his muscles tightened as if struck , pain , sharp and sudden , or maybe anger , the kind that had been rotting in him for years . ❝ i don't care , ❞ he snapped , heat flaring through every syllable , as though all the fires he'd ever extinguished had found a home inside him instead . ❝ i don't care if it looks the same . or if it burned to the ground . i don't care about any of it . ❞

bronwyn had been the first to leave , then their brother , and osian had been left with parents who'd never cared for any of them , least of all him . it wasn't long after that he packed what little he owned and walked out of that house for good . he never looked back , not even through the months of scraping by that followed . ❝ i'm surprised you even remember what it looks like , ❞ he scoffed , low , petty , and entirely intentional . a cheap shot at the truth , she'd left that house , and everything inside it , far behind her .

She let out a breath through her nose, slow and measured, like she was counting it out. Like she was standing on a range instead of a ballroom.

“Oh, I fucking remember it,” she said quietly. Not loud. Not shaking. Worse than that — steady. “I remember skipping school to work doubles so the lights didn’t get shut off.” Her jaw tightened, words coming sharper now, harder to keep holstered. “I remember getting up before dawn to make sure there was food in the fridge and lunches packed, because no one else was doing it.” Her fingers curled around her cup, knuckles whitening. She didn’t look away from him.

“I remember fixing the sink myself because the landlord wouldn’t come, and learning how to reset the breaker because it kept tripping every time we ran the microwave.” A humorless breath left her. “I remember that kitchen better than any place I’ve ever lived since.” The army hadn’t taught her how to inventory pain like this. She’d learned it there — in that house — one unpaid bill, one quiet sacrifice at a time.

“So don’t stand there and tell me I don’t remember it,” she went on, voice finally lifting, finally breaking its own leash. “I carried that place on my back for years. I carried you.” Her throat burned now, but she forced the words out anyway, because if she stopped, she might not start again. “And yeah,” she said, bitterness threading through it, “I left. I know I did. I don’t pretend otherwise. But don’t rewrite it like I was never there. Like I didn’t bleed myself dry trying to hold everything together before I finally ran out of ways to do it.”

Silence slammed back into place between them, thick and electric. She realized then that her pulse was hammering hard enough to feel in her ears. She swallowed, eyes never leaving his.

“If you want to be angry at me for leaving,” she said, quieter again, exhaustion creeping in around the edges, “fine. I’ve earned that. But don’t take the years I gave and pretend they never happened.”

Her grip loosened on the cup. Her shoulders squared, the old reflex. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t retreat. She just stood there, breathing through the ache, daring him — silently — to tell her she hadn’t been there at all.

She needed a change. Somewhere new where she wouldn't be recognized but it could still prove entertaining enough. The moodier setting and lack of machines singing felt like bliss, though her attention soon focused towards the man behind the bar.

There was a constant ire with the MC. Whispers of underground gambling, secret casinos that no likely took away from the one that she controlled and had put her blood, sweat, and tears into. While she searched for a breath of fresh air, he would be the welcomed entertainment.

"What cocktails are you capable of doing?" By the looks of him, she was certain none but her goal was to annoy. She sat directly in the middle, getting comfortable in the worn seat that had clearly held another. Her fingers touched the bar, pulling back at the stickiness. "Interesting place you have here." Her nose wrinkled, tone clung to judgement despite the sickly sweet smile she flashed.

“Capable?” he repeated, one brow lifting a fraction. Not offended. Amused, maybe. The tone she was using wasn’t new—people talked like that when they wanted to establish footing fast. Or knock someone else off theirs. He glanced down the bar, then back to her. “I can pour you something you’ll like. Or something you’ll complain about. Depends what kind of night you’re lookin’ to have.”

The comment about the place earned a quiet huff through his nose. Joe didn’t bother defending the Iron Horse. Places like this didn’t survive on explanations. They survived because people who didn’t belong figured that out quickly.

“Sticky floors mean people stay long enough to spill,” he said calmly. “Usually means the drinks are doing their job.” He reached for a clean glass anyway, rolling it once between his hands. His gaze sharpened—not hostile, just alert. This wasn’t a woman slumming it. The posture was wrong for that. Too composed. Too intentional. The kind of confidence that came from knowing there were other rooms she usually controlled.

“So,” Joe continued, voice low but carrying, “you want to tell me what you actually drink, or are we gonna keep circlin’ each other until one of us gets bored?” A brief pause. A test. “And for what it’s worth,” he added, setting the glass down in front of her without pouring yet, “most people who wrinkle their nose like that already know exactly where they’ve walked into.”

“Cold beer ain’t a fuckin' order,” he said evenly. Not loud. Didn’t need to be. The Iron Horse had a way of quieting just enough when he spoke, like the place leaned in without realizing it.

“You want a lager, an ale, an IPA, or you want me to start guessing and disappoint you?” His mouth tipped into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I pour what people ask for. Not what they imagine.”

He flicked the towel onto the bar and reached for a clean glass anyway, giving her the chance to course-correct.

Call it a beacon, call it wanting to warm up, call it drunk and lost, Micah called it familiar.

Cigarette smoke and stale beer, the floorboards the knocked underneath her boots it reminded her of home. Of nights singing by her daddy at the local bar, of her own youth sneaking into bars she had no business being in at the ripe age of sixteen but hey, what's a little adventure in the woods? She offers a warm smile, tossing her bright hair into a ponytail before she shakes her head. "Just gettin' warm, it's a little frosty out there." Nothing quite like the winters back east but the desert was just as unforgiving.

"Bother you for a whiskey in the meantime?" She asks, sliding her wallet out of her jacket and fiddling with the dollar bills.

“Frosty’s generous,” he said, dry, already reaching for a glass. Vegas cold had a way of sneaking up on people who thought desert meant heat year-round. He tipped the glass once under the tap to rinse it, then reached for the bottle instead. Whiskey was a safe ask. It told him she wasn’t here to start trouble, just anchor herself for a minute.

He poured, unhurried, set the glass down in front of her with a soft knock against the wood. “House pours are honest,” he added, not quite a warning, not quite a promise. “If you’re lookin’ to get warm, you picked the right side of town. If you’re lookin’ to disappear for a bit, that too.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the door behind her, then back. “Rodeo crowd’s been drifting through all night,” he said, conversational, a test wrapped in small talk, although he had a certain fondness for the rodeo, it being the way he made the money to afford the very bar they stood in. “Most of ’em don’t wander this far unless they’ve lost someone—or somethin’ else.” A beat. “You drinkin’ alone, or you expectin’ company?”

⸻ Anouk looked up at the male she had just bumped into. She kept clinging to her purse, as if it would help to keep her warmer; her skin was porcelain and taut, kissed by the frost until her cheeks bloomed with a tragic, wind-whipped crimson. The blonde smirks at his joke, letting out a puff of white vapor with every sound from her mouth. She was unprepared for this event. For a lot of reasons, starting from her original date ditching her right on their first night out, but on the other hand, she didn't let this ruin her night, because turns out she got drinks and food for free, despite the night being so odd for lack of better words to describe that.

❛ I'm just a little cold, that's all… ❜ And high, that part went unspoken, for the first time, she tried drugs with her friend Ale. Since she lives in her car, she cannot recall where she parked it in that darkness. ❛ Do you know a good place to park without getting fined? I'm new in town, I am still learning… Everything around here. ❜ Her accent slips in and out when she is drunk or upset, in that case… Drunk.

“Cold,” he echoed, dry, like it was a working theory. His gaze dipped once—parking lot, street, the way she stood a fraction too loose for the temperature—then he took her hand, brief and solid, not lingering. “Mo.” He released her and shoved his hands back into his coat pockets, shoulders hunching against the wind as another gust cut through the open space. “Welcome to Vegas,” he added. “Nobody tells you it freezes the second the sun clocks out.”

Her question gave him pause. Not suspicion—calculation. New in town, no car in sight, asking about parking enforcement at midnight. He tilted his head, considering. “Depends how attached you are to your windshield,” he said. “Meters are a gamble, Strip-adjacent lots get patrolled like vultures, and anything marked ‘event parking’ will absolutely ticket you out of spite.” A beat. “Residential streets a few blocks east usually fly under the radar. No guarantees, but that’s the city.”

His eyes flicked back toward the venue, then down the street, measuring distance. “You walking, or waiting on a ride?” Not invasive. Practical. “Because if you’re just standing out here asking for frostbite advice, I’d recommend upgrading your plan.”