Chapter 18: Commando
The car was a tomb of stale air and empty whiskey bottles. Hardin woke with a start, his neck screaming from the angle against the cold window glass. Morning light, weak and gray, cut through the fog on the windshield. He was still in the Walmart parking lot.
His phone was on the passenger seat, face down. He reached for it, the movement slow, limbs heavy with a sleep that wasn’t rest. He flipped it over. The screen lit up, a stark rectangle in the dim car.
Tessa
His thumb hovered, then tapped. The message thread opened. His own words stared back at him, a one-sided monument to his own desperation.
Tessa?
Can we talk please?
I’m sorry
All unread. The little ‘delivered’ tags were there, but no ‘seen.’ She hadn’t even opened them. A month’s worth of typing and deleting, of late-night impulses and sober morning regrets, all suspended in digital space, ignored.
He ran his hands down his face, the scratch of stubble loud in the quiet. His palms pressed hard against his closed eyelids until colors burst in the darkness.
“Fuck,” he breathed into his hands.
He tugged at the neck of his t-shirt, a restless, agitated motion. He made a fist, watched the knuckles whiten.
He needed coffee. Something to burn the fog out of his head.
The diner across the street was a greasy spoon with neon in the window that buzzed even in the daytime. He slid into a sticky vinyl booth in the back. The waitress, an older woman with tired eyes, poured coffee without asking. He nodded his thanks, wrapped his hands around the thick ceramic mug. The heat was almost painful.
The heat was almost painful. It was a clean, focused pain, unlike the ragged, formless ache sitting in his chest. He drank the coffee black, the bitterness a familiar anchor.
He left cash on the table, too much, and walked out without waiting for change. The engine of his old car turned over with a complaining grumble. He drove across town, the streets blurring into a smear of brick and neon, his knuckles white on the wheel.
He pulled up outside a narrow storefront tucked between a pawnshop and a closed deli. The sign simply read 'INK', the 'I' flickering. The 'Closed' sign was flipped in the window, but a dim light glowed from the back.
Hardin banged his fist against the reinforced glass door. The sound echoed in the quiet street.
"Fuck off!" a woman's voice shouted from inside. "We're closed!"
He banged again, persistent, the rhythm angry and impatient.
The door swung open a moment later. "What part of 'fuck off' don't you—" The woman stopped. Her expression shifted. "Hardin."
"You busy?" he asked, his voice rough.
She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. "Kind of. Why don't you come back tomorrow?"
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded wad of cash. He held it out between two fingers, not speaking, just watching her.
She looked from his face to the money and back. A slow smile touched her lips. "Or just come in right now," she said, stepping back and opening the door wider.
The shop smelled of antiseptic and vanilla incense. She led him past empty stations to her private room in the back. The light was brighter here, clinical. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a shelf, holding it up.
He shook his head. "I'm good."
"Come on," she said, unscrewing the cap. "It'll ease the pain."
He sat heavily in the black leather chair, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror on the wall. "I like the pain."
"Suit yourself." She put the bottle away.
He pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric catching for a second on the old ship tattoo on his shoulder. The dead tree across his torso was a dark, intricate landscape against his skin.
She wiped his left shoulder clean with a cold, alcohol-soaked pad. She applied the transfer paper, pressing the design onto his skin. When she peeled it back, the outline remained: barbed wire wrapping around his left shoulder.
"You know the drill," she said, switching on her machine. The buzz filled the small room, a high, hungry whine.
He leaned back into the chair, closing his eyes. The first bite of the needle was a bright, searing line a slight sting. He welcomed it, let it flood the empty spaces where her name echoed.
“This one’s angry,” the artist commented, wiping away a trickle of crimson with a practiced swipe.
Hardin stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the stains. “It’s just lines.”
“It’s barbed wire, Hardin. It’s not a ‘just lines’ kind of image.” She dipped the needle again. “Who’s got you caged?”
He didn’t answer. The question hung in the air, mingling with the machine’s whine. He thought of Tessa’s laugh, a sound he hadn’t heard in weeks, and the ink felt like a punishment he deserved.
The car pulled up to a hotel, The Montgomery, a grand old building of weathered stone and gleaming brass. They got out of the car and walked in, Tessa following Vance and Kimberly into the hotel, walking beside the guy from the elevator. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and low, tasteful jazz.
“Welcome back, Mr. Vance,” a sleek employee behind the desk said, his smile polished.
Vance gave a curt nod. “The rooms.”
“I have your rooms ready for you,” the employee confirmed, tapping his screen. “And I’ve had a printer delivered to Mr. Matthew’s room. Unfortunately, Miss Young’s room wasn’t ready, so we had her upgraded to a suite with the compliments of management.”
Trevor looked at Tessa, a sardonic eyebrow raised. “So I get a printer,” he said, “and you get a suite. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Tessa met his gaze, summoning the defiance she’d used in the office. “Definitely,” she said, her voice steady. He gave a short, humorless laugh and walked toward the elevators to head up to his room.
Vance headed over to Kimberly, barely glancing at Tessa. “Honey, do you mind taking Tessa shopping? She needs something for tonight.” He patted Kimberly’s arm, his attention already across the lobby. “I trust you.”
He was walking toward the bar before he finished speaking.
Kimberly smiled and grabbed Tessa’s arm, her grip firm and friendly. “Let’s go have some fun.” She practically pulled Tessa back through the revolving doors, the humid city air a shock after the hotel’s chill. A sleek town car waited at the curb. “In you go.”
Tessa slid across the cool leather. “I have clothes,” she said, though the protest sounded weak even to her. She thought of her single suitcase, packed for a modest internship, not a publishing conference.
“You have jeans and blouses,” Kimberly corrected gently, tapping the driver’s partition. “Vance needs his people to look a certain way. It’s not personal, it’s packaging.”
The car headed into town, moving from historic blocks into a gleaming district of designer storefronts
“We need something that says ‘I belong here’,” Kimberly murmured, her fingers skating along a rack of silk.
Tessa touched the price tag of a simple slip dress. Her stomach flipped. “This is more than my rent.”
“Vance’s card says not to worry about it.” Kimberly plucked the dress from the rack and held it against Tessa. “This is the one. Trust me.”
An hour later, they emerged with two large bags. The dress, a pair of heels that looked like architectural hazards, and a clinging emerald-green number Kimberly had bought for herself. The city air felt different now, charged with a nervous, expensive energy.
They got back from the shops and headed up to Tessa’s room. The suite was absurd, all cream carpets and a view of the river. Tessa dropped the bags on a sprawling sectional sofa.
“Are you sure that I can get in?” Tessa asked, pulling the dress from its tissue paper. “Cause I’ve never been to a night club before. Don’t they check-“
Kimberly stopped her, taking the hanger. “You’ll be with us. It’s a private industry thing, they check the list.” She hung the dress on a closet door. “Look, before we go out tonight, I just wanted to tell you something. Vance and I are more than coworkers.”
“Ohh,” Tessa said, the sound slipping out before she could shape it into something more articulate.
“It was strictly a work thing for years,” Kimberly continued, smoothing the dress’s hem. “Especially after his wife died. Then I started helping out with his son, Smith, and well… love can really take you by surprise.”
Kimberly’s voice softened, a genuine warmth breaking through her professional veneer. It was the most unguarded Tessa had seen her.
“Yes it can,” Tessa replied, the words thick in her throat. Her mind flashed, unbidden, to a messy-haired boy with ocean eyes.
Kimberly stood up, clapping her hands together once. “I can’t wait for them to see you in this dress tonight.” Her eyes went wide. “Shoot. We forgot to buy you underwear.”
“But my clothes are at the laundry,” Tessa said, glancing at her empty suitcase.
“If I leave now I can run back to the mall.”
Tessa cut her off. “Oh, no, no it’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” Kimberly asked, her head tilted.
“Yeah,” Tessa said, feeling a reckless streak ignite. The dress was backless, sleek. Underwear would have meant lines, seams, compromises.
“Okay,” Kimberly laughed, a real, bright sound. “I guess we’re going commando tonight then.”
“I can’t believe I’ve only been at Vance for a day,” Tessa said, sitting at the vanity as Kimberly produced a small makeup bag.
Kimberly leaned in, applying a light stroke of mascara to Tessa’s lashes. “Well, Hardin said we’d be lucky to have you.”
The makeup wand froze. Tessa looked at her reflection, then at Kimberly’s in the mirror. “You spoke to Hardin?”
“No, Vance did.” Kimberly blinked, finishing the stroke. “He didn’t tell you?”
Tessa shook her head, a slow, disbelieving motion. The name in the room was a physical presence, shifting the air.
“Oh must’ve slipped his mind.” Kimberly held up a mirror. “All done”
Tessa’s reflection stared back, The knowledge about Hardin sat in her stomach, a cold, hard stone. “He never mentioned it,” she said, handing the mirror back.
“Vance mentions very little.” Kimberly zipped her makeup bag shut. “But he listens. Now, let’s get you dressed before we’re late.”
Hardin’s dorm room was a tomb of dirty laundry and empty bottles. The cling wrap on his new tattoo crackled as he carefully peeled it off, the adhesive tugging at his skin. The barbed wire was a stark, raised line against the inflammation, red and angry.
He rotated his arm, watching the light catch the wet ink. It was a clean, defined pain, unlike the messy ache in his chest. He got up to go to the bathroom, wanting to wash the dried blood away.
His phone buzzed on the bed, skittering across a textbook. He walked over, picking it up. The screen glowed with a text from Ariana.
hang out with us tonight
Come on don’t be lame!
I’m not going to leave you alone until you say yes.
He shut his phone off, the screen dying mid-vibration. He dropped it onto the rumpled comforter and headed to the bathroom.
The bathroom light was a brutal fluorescent glare. Hardin leaned over the sink, the porcelain cool against his palms, and studied his reflection. The dark circles under his eyes were permanent fixtures now, like the ink slowly settling into his skin. He turned on the tap, the water running cold, and cupped his hands under the stream.
He splashed his face once, twice, the shock of it clearing nothing. Droplets traced paths through the stubble on his jaw. He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles bleaching white, and watched the water spiral down the drain. His phone, dead and silent in the other room, felt like a weight in the atmosphere.
With a sharp sigh, he straightened up, toweled off his face, and walked back into the dorm. He didn’t look at the phone again. He pulled a clean-ish black shirt over his head, the soft cotton brushing against the tender barbed wire.
The green silk felt like water against Tessa’s skin. She stood in the center of the lavish suite, the expansive silence pressing in on her. The dress was a sinuous, thigh-length thing, the color of deep forest shadows, and it moved with her every breath. The black heels added three inches she didn’t need, making the world feel tilt-able.
She hadn’t worn anything like it. The absence of underwear was a constant, thrilling awareness, a secret recklessness beneath the elegant fabric. She applied a final coat of lipstick, a muted berry shade Kimberly had chosen, and blotted it on a tissue.
Her reflection was a stranger—polished, poised, alarmingly adult. The girl from the campus courtyard, from the frantic run to the elevator, was gone. She took a deep breath, the silk tightening across her ribs, and walked out.
The hotel lobby was quieter now, the evening crowd replaced by a hushed, moneyed calm. The click of her heels on the marble was a sharp, confident sound she didn’t feel. She saw them first: Vance by a pillar, checking his watch, Kimberly elegant in emerald beside him, and Trevor slouched in an armchair, scrolling through his phone.
She crossed the space, the air cool on her bare legs. Trevor looked up. His eyes traveled from her heels up the length of the silk dress, a slow, appraising scan that wasn’t quite a leer but held no warmth either.
“Wow,” he said, not moving from his slouch. “You clean up nicely.”
Kimberly shot him a withering look. Vance turned, and for a fraction of a second, his practiced, impatient mask slipped into something like genuine surprise.
“Gee, Trevor, you sure know how to charm the ladies,” Vance said, his voice dry as dust. His eyes met Tessa’s and he offered a small, professional smile. “Tessa, you look stunning.”
“Thank you,” Tessa said, the smile on her face feeling stiff. She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the silk.
A black town car slid to the curb. They rode in near-silence, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows in molten gold and neon. Trevor tapped his knee relentlessly. Kimberly checked her reflection in a compact. Vance stared ahead, a man running calculations behind his eyes.
The nightclub was a throbbing beast of bass and curated darkness, hidden behind an unmarked door. A man with a headset and a clipboard checked Vance’s name, his eyes sliding over Tessa without interest before he unclipped the velvet rope.
Inside, the sound was a physical pressure. Strobe lights cut through a haze of artificial fog, illuminating gyrating bodies in fractured glimpses. Vance led them through the crush, a path clearing for him as if by magic, to a raised VIP section cordoned off with more velvet.
It was slightly quieter, a balcony overlooking the chaos. The plush banquettes were empty. “Wait here,” Vance shouted near Kimberly’s ear, then disappeared into a shadowy hallway with a bouncer.
Trevor sank into the corner of a curved sofa, looking profoundly bored. Tessa sat opposite him, perching on the edge of the cushion, her spine straight.
“I feel like I’m sitting at the kids’ table,” Trevor said, raising his voice over a pulsing synth line.
“Same,” Tessa responded, her gaze following a server with a tray of glowing cocktails.
He glanced at her, a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe amusement—in his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I hate nightclubs. Probably because I suck at dancing, but I hate nightclubs. The whole performance of it.”
Tessa leaned slightly closer. The music dropped for a beat between songs. “Why are we here?”
Trevor’s chin gestured toward a corner of the club below, a secluded booth shrouded in deeper shadow. A man in a impeccably tailored silver-gray suit held court, surrounded by a small, attentive crowd. Bottles of champagne gleamed like trophies on the table.
“Him,” Trevor said.“Mr. Chang. His family owns a hedge fund worth three hundred million, and he’s considering investing in Vance’s expansion.” He turned back to Tessa. “Do you want me to get you a drink?”
Tessa held up the bottle of mineral water that had been waiting on their table. “I’m gonna stick to water. It’s what my budget allows these days.”
“I thought you were a paid intern?” he asked, his tone not unkind, just curious.
“You’d be surprised how much Uber charges add up.” She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I mean, I’d be lucky to break even this month.”
Before Trevor could reply, a presence materialized beside their table. It was Mr.Chang. He held a massive, fishbowl-sized glass filled with a vibrant, neon-orange liquid and dozens of thin straws. Up close, he was younger than she expected, with a sharp, intelligent face and watchful eyes.
The neon liquid sloshed, a hundred thin straws standing upright like reeds in a toxic pond.
Mr. Chang spoke in rapid, melodic Mandarin, gesturing to the bowl with a flourish.
Trevor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What is that?” Tessa asked, raising her voice over the thudding bass.
Mr. Chang replied in Chinese again, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face. Tessa looked at Trevor for translation.
“Sex on the Beach,” Trevor said, the common cocktail name sounding absurdly formal in the context.
Before she could react, Mr. Chang vaulted over the back of the plush couch with surprising agility. He landed sitting between Trevor and Tessa, his momentum jostling them both. He clapped a hand on each of their shoulders, his touch firm and proprietary.
He spoke again, his tone commanding and playful, nodding at the bowl.
“Grab a straw,” Trevor translated, a reluctant smile touching his own lips. “On mark, get set, go.”
They all bent forward in unison, Tessa feeling the green silk strain across her back. She chose a straw, the plastic flexing between her fingers. The three of them sucked in a deep, simultaneous pull. The liquid was sweeter than she anticipated, with a sharp, alcoholic burn cutting through the peach and cranberry.
She sat back, the sugar and vodka hitting her system like a warm, pleasant shockwave. “That’s really good,” Tessa said, the admission surprised out of her.
Mr. Chang barked a laugh, fired off another quick phrase.
“Again,” Trevor said, already pointing at the bowl. His earlier boredom was gone, replaced by a competitive gleam.
They bent again, drinking deeply. This pull was longer, more committed. Tessa felt the alcohol bloom behind her eyes, softening the sharp edges of the strobe lights and the anonymous crowd.
Mr. Chang tightened his grip on their shoulders, pulling them into a huddle. His words were a conspiratorial gust against Tessa’s ear. Trevor translated, his own voice loose and loud. “We’re gonna get fucked up tonight!”
The house was a pulse of bass and shadow, a converted warehouse throbbing with bodies and cheap beer smell. Hardin pushed through the crowded doorway, the fresh ink on his shoulder screaming in protest as it brushed against the frame. The buzz in his pocket had been a lifeline—a location texted from a number he didn’t bother naming.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Noah materialized from the smoke-hazed kitchen, holding two plastic cups.
Hardin scowled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “That’s a stupid fucking expression. Why would a cat drag me in?”
“Welcome back,” Noah said, ignoring the comment. He shoved one of the cups into Hardin’s hand. It was straight, cheap whiskey, the amber liquid catching the red of a string of party lights.
Hardin took it. He didn’t toast, didn’t speak. He tipped his head back and let the fire pour down his throat, erasing nothing.