Chapter 5: Public Claiming
The neon buzz was a toothache behind the eyes. Scarlet sipped her beer, the glass slick with condensation, and watched the bubbles rise in the amber liquid. It was Thursday. Chloe’s idea. A ‘return to normalcy’ over cheap wings and pitcher specials.
Normalcy felt like a skin she’d shed and couldn’t fit back into.
“You’re quiet,” Chloe said, plucking a celery stick from the shared basket. “Quieter than usual. Which is saying something.” Her eyes, sharp and knowing behind her geometric frames, scanned Scarlet’s face. “Is it work? Or is it the weird, secret thing you won’t talk about?”
Scarlet’s thumb traced the scar on her palm, a thin white line from the kitchen knife. A souvenir. “No secret. Just tired.”
“Bullshit.” Chloe leaned forward, lowering her voice. “You’ve been jumpy for weeks. You flinch when doors slam. And you have this… look. Like you’re listening to music nobody else can hear.”
Before Scarlet could fabricate an answer, the air in the bar changed. It wasn’t a sound, but a shift in pressure. A collective, subconscious tightening. He stood just inside the door, backlit by the streetlamp, his silhouette all unforgiving angles. Razor.
He scanned the room. His gaze landed on her, and it was like a physical touch—a rough hand skimming up her spine.
Chloe followed her stare. “Oh, hell no. Who is that?”
“No one,” Scarlet whispered, but her pulse was a frantic drum against her ribs.
He moved through the crowd with a predatory ease, people subtly parting for him. He wore a worn leather jacket over a grey shirt, jeans that looked painted on. His knuckles were scarred. He stopped at their table, ignoring Chloe completely, his eyes locked on Scarlet.
“You’re here,” he said. It wasn’t a greeting. It was an accusation.
“I’m here.”
Chloe cleared her throat, loudly. “Hi. I’m Chloe. The best friend. You are?”
“Leaving,” he said, still looking at Scarlet. “With her.”
Scarlet’s mouth went dry. “I’m with my friend.”
“Now you’re with me.” He reached down, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. His grip was firm, unquestionable. A current of pure, undiluted electricity shot up her arm.
“Hey!” Chloe snapped, half-rising from her seat. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Scarlet, do you know this guy?”
Scarlet stood. Her legs felt weak. “It’s okay, Chlo.”
“The fuck it is! He just— Scarlet!”
But she was already being led away, his hold on her wrist an unbreakable tether. He didn’t take her toward the door. He pulled her toward the back, past the restrooms, to the relic of a jukebox glowing in a dim corner. A slow, mournful country song warbled from its speakers.
He pinned her against the vibrating machine, the metal cool through her thin blouse. The glow of the