Ramona was greeted by a cloud of smoke the minute she pushed the door to the bar open. Perhaps there had once been a time where that would have made her eyes water and her throat itch. These days, it took more than cigarettes to break down the inside of her body. And vaya, did she try.
She peered through the hazy cloud in front of her, to the bottles behind the bar top, the scantily clad bartenders and the neon âBudweiserâ signs clamped to the wall. It was busy - well, it was a Saturday, what did she expect? But the press of bodies, sweaty and gyrating, made it difficult for her to spot who she was here to see. Even when pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, teetering slightly, she couldnât see him.
Just as she was about to tug her phone out of her shorts, it buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and tapped the screen. A text, the senderâs only identification being the rat emoji. Partly because, contrary to popular belief, Ramona wasnât an idiot and knew not to save her dealer under any sort of identifiable contact name. But mostly because the tiny little rat image was fitting for Paul.
Running late, was all the text said. No apology, because that wasnât necessary. Paul wasnât in the business of being polite and they both knew Ramona was desperate enough to wait. The fifty dollar bill rolled up in the cup of her bralette knew it too.
She reacted with a thumbs-up then clicked her screen off, sighing to herself. Figuring she could slip away to the little girlâs room and thumb away the mascara smudges under her eyes after a long shift at the club, she twisted around the throng of dancers in the middle of the bar, doing her best not to get trodden on or squished in between the heaving mass of clubgoers.Â
Squeezing herself out, she nearly managed to make it to the bathroom without incident, were it not for a bartender who looked harried and frazzled, skirting by her with a tray full of empty drinks. She dodged out of his way in a poor attempt at trying to make his job easier, only to collide with a body behind her. Quickly, she squeaked and turned around, ready to issue an apology and then bat her eyelashes if that didnât work in her favour.
The words died in her throat as she stared at the man though. Leather jacket and sharp jawline. Broad shoulders and alert eyes. Suddenly, her mouth was as dry as the Nevada desert sheâd grown up in. She stared at him, a heady thrill shooting through her chest. Could it really be him? Something about the picture seemed funny to her in the darkened, dusky club, but that could also just be the shots Betsy had pressed into her hand earlier. She squinted, feeling her cheeks heat up. No, it had to be. That was the same face that had helped her document her early days in Vegas, where sheâd been darting back and forth between different venues, bombing auditions and shaking like a nervous filly. Heâd been there the whole time to reassure her, to lift her up, to make sure no man at any of the casinos touched her in a way she didnât like. And now, years later, here he was in front of her.
She swallowed, and tried to find her voice.
âSebastian?â
Killian hadnât been counting the days since Amira had been gone. He wasnât at that level of desperation yet. He didnât think heâd ever be at that level of desperation. His love for Amira didnât have all the cliches of a crooning pop song, although the deeper heâd fallen in love with her, the more it had started to feel like it. So no, Killian hadnât been counting the days since Amira had packed her bags and left, but her absence had been marked in other ways.Â
Wraith didnât paw at her bedroom door, she was too used to finding the small, warm body of her owner curled up in Killianâs bed. But often she sat on Killianâs chest in the morning, peering down at him with a look that was either sheer confusion or disdain, he wasnât sure. Her mugs still sat in the cupboard above the kettle, but her tea bags had long since run out, and Killian wouldnât torture himself by replenishing them. He noted her absence in the way Goose stared at him when he came home from a night shift at the Pizzeria, like he was wondering just what the hell Killian was playing at. Killian often wondered the same thing. Playing at. Even that. An Amira-ism.
He hated his apartment now. It felt as fraught and empty as his married home, and he wanted to spend as much time there as he had in Saskiaâs house. He did feel bad for Goose, he was sure the kid must feel heâd been abandoned. But Killian had always been selfish, and his desire to be out of the house overrode his guilt. He started picking up more night shifts, wandering during the day. He didnât want to encroach on Persephoneâs happiness, and was dodging Hunterâs texts. Instead he wandered the city, avoiding the places he knew she frequented.Â
Heâd even picked up a little side hustle.Â
It hadnât been purposeful. Heâd discovered the drugs back when heâd been tearing his bedroom apart, out of his mind with loss and a need for something to do. Heâd forgotten about the creaky floorboard underfoot. It was a ridiculous spot, reminiscent of a teenage boy hiding his pornography stash. But heâd never wanted Amira to know they were in the apartment. Perhaps it had made him a bad boyfriend, to conceal something so damning when he ought to have flushed it all away - the pills, the baggies. Heâd been a bad boyfriend in a lot of ways. What was one more?
When he went out, he tried not to think about the people slipping him cash, the desperate people and the bright eyed party girls. Before, he hadnât really thought about the person on the receiving end. Now he knew addicts - loved them, even. And he knew the hand a particularly uncaring dealer could play in their downfall. Killian knew his sleepless nights would become a whole lot worse if he started associating his clients with Amira, or with Persephone. Killian would just deal for a little while until everything was out of the apartment, til he couldnât anymore. He made that bargain with himself.Â
With his pockets full of pills, Killian lurked in the dark corners of the shittiest bar in downtown New York. No surface was spared from a thick layer of grime and stickiness, sweat and cigarette smoke hung in the air. He stayed well back, letting people come to him. Killian wasnât entirely convinced heâd be able to venture into the middle of the bar without experiencing some kind of panic attack. Besides, the bartender had gotten to know him in the past couple of visits heâd made, pointed people his way and even bought for himself. He would let the other man do his dirty work, unable to bring himself to seek out the unfortunate.
Tipping his head up, Killian squinted against the overhead lights of the bar, chemical yellow flushed with glaring neon signage. A few patrons were hanging around on the upper level, where it seemed quieter, a few people nursing drinks and actually conversing, as opposed to the disgusting smattering of bodies rubbing up against each other down on the ground. He squared his jaw, wondering if he ought to venture up there. Much more conspicuous, sure, but anything to be out of this throng.
Then, he felt a small body make direct contact with his back. His shoes skidded against the sticky floor, the usually-agile man stumbling in sheer shock. Biting back a low growl, he turned to face the drunken stranger, ready to chew them out for sheer idiocy. Instead, her words made him feel like heâd been doused in cold water.Â
It had been a long time since Killian had been mistaken for his older brother. Growing up, theyâd shared many distinct physical traits. Same dark hair, same slight quirk of their mouth when each boy found something amusing. As theyâd grown up and developed two completely different personalities, the mix ups had become less frequent. Killian was sullen and withdrawn, Bash had been kind and nurturing, making up for all the things Killian had lacked. In fact, the only person whoâd ever found them to be interchangeable was Saskia.Â
No, Killian thought, wincing. That had been unkind. He was doing her a disservice. She had loved him once, or at least, the idea of him. Even Killian could recognise when he was being cruel.Â
âNo.â KilIian spat, voice hard. âYouâre mistaken.â
He flexed his fingers inside his leather gloves, peering down at the young woman. The young woman who knew Bash. He would say she didnât look like the kind of company heâd keep, but it would have been a lie. Sebastian loved waifs and strays, perhaps as much as he did. And she looked⌠genuinely rattled. Like the ghost of Sebastian Ford had truly risen up in front of her. But how could a young girl from New York City know his big brother, who existed only in Nevada? Whose body resided there, New York an unfathomable thing he would never touch? It felt impossible to place her.
His gaze hardened. Clearing his throat, he heard himself ask, âSebastian Ford?â
It was a foolish thing to do.
âDo I know you?â
