Chapter 5: The Closet

Jessie

The restroom mirror is cracked down the middle, but it’s the only thing in this building that isn’t vibrating.

I turn the faucet. The water is freezing. I cup it in my hands and splash my face, but the chill doesn’t touch the fever burning under my skin.

Snow and blood.

Silas’s voice loops in my head. Quiet. Lethal.

I grab a rough brown paper towel and scrub at my cheeks like I can wipe his words off my skin. My reflection stares back. Pale. Shaking. Eyes still a normal, boring brown.

But my pulse is a jackhammer against my throat. And underneath the cheap lavender soap of the bathroom, I can still smell him. Black tea. Damp earth. Rain.

I shove the paper towel into the trash and push out the door. I need Tinsley. I need Brooke. I need to get out of this bar before my skin crawls right off my bones.

I step back into the main room, and the wall of sound hits me like a physical blow. Neon lights, spilled beer, the heavy thump of the bass rattling my teeth.

I grab a fresh Coke from a passing tray, needing something cold, needing to ground myself. I'm lifting it to my lips, trying to get a single sip, when fingers close around my wrist.

The glass tips. Soda runs over my knuckles. Cold. Sticky.

I twist. Martins. Right there.

Not glaring. Not jaw-locked. Worse. He's saying my name too carefully. Pronouncing every syllable like he's counting them. That's how he sounds before he benches someone at practice.

"Come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Heller."

"Now, Jessie. Don't make a scene."

He tugs me off the stool. My boot catches a sticky patch and I stumble. His hand drops to my lower back. Fingers dig just enough to steady me. The heat comes through my shirt and settles flat against my spine.

I don't look at him. I look at the wet patch spreading on my sleeve.

The bar is a mess of elbows and spilled lager. Someone's shoulder clips mine. Beer splashes my other arm. I don't look down. I'm too busy wondering why Martins Heller is touching me like he earned the right.

"Where are we going?"

"Just walk."

"People are staring."

"I don't care."

And that's the thing. He doesn't sound like a captain managing a situation. He sounds personally upset. And I keep thinking, if he's this worked up, it means he noticed. Every second with Jonah. Every hand. He was watching the whole time.

Down the narrow hallway past the restrooms. Carpet torn at the edges, curling in brown strips. Wet wool from winter coats. Fryer grease clinging to someone's jacket behind me. He shoves open a door I didn't even see.

Supply closet. Industrial lemon bleach and sour mildew. The door clicks shut. The bass disappears so abruptly I hear the hitch in my own breathing.

"What is your problem?" I yank my wrist back. "You think you can just drag me around?"

Half a step backward. The shelf catches my shoulder blade. There's nowhere else to put myself. His hands plant on either side of my head. A plastic bottle of floor wax rattles.

"You think you can walk into my bar, let Jonah put his hands all over you, and I'm supposed to just sit there?"

"I didn't let him."

"You didn't stop him."

I shove his chest. He barely rocks. "You have a girlfriend. In case you forgot."

Lila's hand on his shirt from the booth flashes behind my eyes. Those nails digging little half-moons into his collar. Tap, tap, tap. Claiming him in front of everyone.

"I know." He starts to say something else. Stops. Looks at the shelf beside my ear like the answer might be printed on a bottle of ammonia. "You've been in my head all night."

I want to call it jealousy. Jealousy is explainable. Jealousy means this is about Jonah, about the bar, about territory. But he can't hold my gaze. He swallows before the next word. He looks younger. Less like a captain.

And once he's said it, once he's admitted thinking about me, neither of us can pretend this is only about tonight.

"So what are you doing?"

"I don't know."

He leans in. I should move. I don't. Soap and cold air. Just him.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yeah." His voice drops. "You are."

He kisses me.

Not gentle, not asking. One hand stays braced on the shelf. The other grips my hip through my jeans. I make a sound I didn't plan on making, and it disappears into his mouth.

His thumb drags slow across the denim over my hip bone. Not grabbing. Mapping. His lips part against mine, just enough for his breath to hit my lower lip. Hot. Uneven.

"Damn it, Marlowe." Barely audible. Rough. "You taste like bad coffee and bad…."

I laugh against his mouth. It comes out broken. His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer until my stomach presses flat against his. I can feel the hard line of him through his slacks. Through my jeans. Through every layer of denial I've been stacking since the cafeteria.

"Don't," he says. His hand doesn't move.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm supposed to be here."

His forehead drops to mine. Half a second. Breath ragged.

I shove his chest. My elbow knocks a plastic bucket. It clatters against concrete. Neither of us moves.

I bite my lower lip instead. A thin taste of blood lingers in my mouth. I shake my head.

He makes a sound low in his throat. Then pulls back an inch. His hand slides off my hip and fists the shelf metal until the skin over his knuckles stretches white. Pine resin and cold stone pour off him thick enough that the bleach can't cover it. His chest heaves. Looks like he just ran a full shift.

He wanted to. I can feel the restraint vibrating off him. He wanted to, and he stopped.

And that's somehow worse than if he hadn't.

My skin is still burning where his hand gripped my hip. My pulse is loud in my throat.

"We shouldn't," I start. Barely a whisper.

Knock.

"Martins? Are you in there?"

Lila. Sharp. Annoyed.

Hunger drains out of his face. Panic floods in. He doesn't fix his shirt. He fixes mine. Pulls my hoodie straight where it rode up. Avoids my eyes.

He unlocks the door. Slips out before I can finish breathing.

Through the wood: "I've been looking everywhere for you. What were you doing in a closet?"

"Nothing. Just needed a minute. Let's go."

Footsteps. Fading.

I lean against the shelf. Slide down an inch. Catch myself. My ribs feel too tight, like something inside is pressing outward. Something changing. The bleach is making my head swim. I can't tell whether the room is spinning or I'm the one who hasn't found balance.

And the thought I hate. The one that makes my stomach turn.

I wanted him to stay.

I reach for my phone. Flashlight. Something.

Before the screen catches, I see my reflection in the dark glass of a washing machine shoved in the corner. A crescent of dried detergent residue clouds the upper left. My face looks warped in it. Stretched.

And my eyes.

The neon from the hallway sign must be leaking under the door. That's what I think first. The WOLVES sign is gold. It's catching the glass. It's just light.

Except the color isn't on the surface. It's inside. Behind my irises. Burning outward.

Gold. Coming from me.

My fingers stop obeying. The phone hits concrete. Screen lights up, casting everything in flat white.

I look again. Lean closer. Turn my face toward the weak glow. Search for another flash. Another pulse of color that shouldn't exist.

Brown. Just brown. The same brown they've been for nineteen years.

Nothing.

I could blame three men acting strange on three men. I could blame the scent, the heat, the way my skin still remembers his palm.

I can't explain my own eyes.