Chapter 3: Jackie's Double Shift
The supply closet smelled like bleach, stale cigarettes, and the ghost of a thousand mops that had given up the will to live. Jackie had wedged herself between a metal shelving unit and the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head tipped back against a bucket that she'd flipped upside down and draped with a bar towel she'd stolen from the kitchen. She'd been here for forty-five minutes. It was her fourth nap of the night.
The bass from the dance floor thudded through the wall like a heartbeat. Muffled. Distant. Almost soothing. She could feel it in her spine, in her teeth, in the hollow space behind her sternum where her pulse had settled into something slow and lazy. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing had evened out. She was floating somewhere between sleep and waking, that warm gray space where nothing mattered and nobody needed anything from her.
The door opened.
Light flooded in. Harsh and neon-pink. She didn't open her eyes.
"Jackie."
She knew the voice before the syllable finished. Knew it in her bones, in her blood, in the way her stomach clenched and her jaw tightened and her cunt—traitor that it was—gave a little pulse of recognition.
"Go away, Dante."
The door clicked shut. The light disappeared. But the presence didn't. She could feel him standing there in the dark, filling the small space with heat and the smell of gin and something underneath that was just him. Sulfur. Cinnamon. Burnt sugar.
"Open your eyes."
"No."
"Jackie."
"Fuck off."
A beat of silence. Then the sound of glass clinking against concrete. He'd set the bottle down. She heard him settle against the opposite wall, heard his jacket rustle, heard him exhale slow.
"I brought gin."
"I don't want gin."
"You want something."
She opened her eyes.
The closet was too dark to see him clearly, but she could make out the shape of him—tall, lean, shoulders wider than they had any right to be. His eyes caught what little light there was, reflecting it back like an animal's. Half-demon. The other half was something worse.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Company."
"You have company. You have a whole apartment full of people who actually like you."
"I don't want them. I want you."
She laughed. It came out bitter, sharp-edged, a sound she'd perfected over years of learning how to hurt people before they could hurt her.
"That's a new one."
"It's not new. You just don't listen."
"I listen fine. I just don't care."
He was quiet for a moment. She couldn't see his face, but she knew the expression—the one he got when he was deciding whether to push or retreat. The one that made her want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure.
"The bar's packed," he said finally. "Marla's running the floor. You've been gone almost an hour."
"Marla can handle it."
"Marla's forty-seven and has a bad hip."
"And I'm twenty-six and have a bad attitude. Neither of us is getting worker's comp."
He laughed. Low. Rough. The sound curled around her ribs and squeezed.
"I missed you," he said."Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things you don't mean. It's insulting."
"I mean it."
"You always mean it. That's the problem."
Silence again. She could hear him breathing. Could hear the way his breath caught when he was about to say something he'd regret. She knew him too well. That was the problem—she'd spent three years learning the map of him, every ridge and valley, every hidden minefield. And she'd walked through all of them. Barefoot.
He moved.
She heard the shift of his weight, the scrape of his boots against the floor. Then he was beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His shoulder brushed hers. His hand found her knee in the dark.
"Don't," she said again. But she didn't pull away.
"Just let me—"
"No."
"Jackie."
"I said no."
His hand stayed. Warm. Heavy. His fingers curled around her knee and held, thumb tracing small circles through the fishnet stockings she'd worn because they made her legs look longer and she needed the tips.
"You're working," he said. Not a question.
"Obviously."
"How many?"
"Since when do you care?"
"Since I walked in and saw you in a supply closet."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. She was tired. So tired. The kind of tired that lived in her bones, that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with being. With existing. With dragging herself through another night of pretending she was fine.
"I'm getting paid," she said.
"To do what?"
"To be here. To look pretty. To let dickheads buy me drinks and think they have a chance."
"And do they?"
"Do they what?"
"Have a chance?"
She felt her mouth curve. Dark. Doesn't matter.
"Everyone has a chance," she said. "If they pay enough."
His hand tightened on her knee. A warning. She ignored it.
"What do you want, Dante?"
"You know what I want."
"Then say it."
He didn't. Of course he didn't. He never did. That was the whole thing—he'd rather show up at her work with a bottle of gin and a grudge than open his mouth and tell her something real. Something true. Three years. Three years of this. The push and pull. The on and off. The leaving and coming back. Always coming back.
She was tired of it.
She was tired, period.
She reached up and grabbed his shirt.
He felt it happen—she felt him tense, felt his breath catch. But he didn't stop her. Didn't pull away. Just let her drag him down, let her press her mouth to his.
The kiss was wrong. Too hard. Too angry. Teeth clicking, lips bruising, something desperate underneath that neither of them would name. He tasted like gin and cigarettes and the bitter herb he chewed to keep his teeth white. She bit his lip. He growled.
His hand moved up her thigh. Fingers finding the edge of her skirt, pushing it higher. She was already wet—she'd been wet the moment he said her name—and when his fingers found her through the cheap lace panties, she moaned into his mouth.
He pulled back.
"Say you want it."
"I want it."
"Say you want me."
"I want you."
"Say you'll come home."
She stopped. Her hand froze on the back of his neck.
"No."
"Jackie—"
"No. I'm not doing this. Not again."
"Then what are we doing?"
"Fucking. We're fucking. That's all."
He stared at her. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see something in his face—anger, hurt, hunger. All of it tangled together.
"Fine," he said.
He yanked her panties down.
The elastic snapped. She didn't care. She spread her legs wider, hooked one over his hip, and he was already pushing inside her before she could catch her breath.
He was rough. Fast. No teasing, no build. Just the brutal press of him stretching her open, filling her, his hips slamming into hers with a rhythm that was all anger and no finesse.
Her head hit the bucket behind her. Hard. She grunted. He didn't stop.
"You want this?" he rasped.
"Yes."
"You want me to stop?"
"No."
He bit her neck. His teeth sank into the tender spot where her pulse hammered, and she cried out, the sound swallowed by the thump of the bass through the wall. He sucked, bit again, worried the skin between his teeth until she was sure he'd left a mark.
"Fucking hell," she gasped.
"You love it."
"Shut up."
"You love my cock inside you. You love the way I fuck you. You love that I can't stay away."
She grabbed his hair and yanked. His laugh turned into a groan.
His cock hit something deep. That spot inside her that made her vision white out, that made her whole body clench. She bit her own lip to keep from screaming.
"Come on," he said. "Come on it."
"Fuck you."
"Come on it."
His thumb found her clit. Circled it. Pressed down hard. Combined with the relentless thrust of his cock, the angle, the screaming tension in her thighs, it was too much. Too fucking much.
She shattered.
Her cunt clamped down around him. Her whole body convulsed, nails raking down his back, drawing blood, maybe. Her orgasm ripped through her like something alive, like something that wanted to hurt. She felt tears prick her eyes. Blamed the dim light.
He came a few thrusts later. Buried deep. Grunting into her shoulder. His hips stuttered, then stopped, then he was still.
The closet smelled like sex now. Bleach and gin and something primal. Her thighs were slick with her own come, and she could feel his leaking out of her, slow and hot.
He pulled out. Sat back. She heard him zip his jeans.
"That was seven hundred," she said.
"What?"
"Seven hundred. That's what I make on a good night." She pulled her skirt down. Wiped her thigh with her hand. "If you're gonna use me like I'm working, you can pay me like I'm working."
Silence.
"You don't mean that."
"Don't I?"
"Jackie—"
"Just leave, Dante. Please."
She hated the please. Hated the way it cracked in her throat. Hated the way she couldn't manage to keep it out of her voice.
He stood up. The bottle of gin clinked against his boot.
"I'll be at the usual place," he said.
"Good for you."
"If you change your mind—"
"I won't."
He opened the door. Light flooded in again. She didn't look at his face. Didn't want to see whatever was written there.
The door closed.
She sat in the dark for a long time. Her neck throbbed. When she touched it, her fingers came away wet. Maybe blood. Maybe just sweat. She didn't care.
She pulled herself up. Checked her phone. Three hours left on her shift. She'd have to go back out there. Have to plaster on the smile, shake her tits, convince some lonely trucker that she was interested in his story about the time he drove across three states to see a woman who didn't want him anymore.
She knew the feeling.
The door opened again.
"You're still here."
Marla's voice. Long-suffering. Cigarette-hoarse.
"I'm coming."
"You better. Table six is asking for you. Big tipper."
Jackie stood up. Smoothed her skirt. Ran her fingers through her hair. She could feel Dante's come starting to slide down her thigh and she squeezed her legs together to keep it in. She'd deal with it later.
"I'll be right out."
Marla paused. Then: "You okay, kid?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Don't I ever."
Marla laughed. It turned into a cough. "Fair enough."
The door clicked shut. Jackie was alone again.
She checked her garter. A twenty, two tens, a five, a couple of ones. Enough for cigarettes and breakfast. Enough to get through tomorrow.
She walked out into the neon glare of the Velvet Coffin. Music pounded. Bodies writhed. Somewhere in the crowd, a man was laughing too loud and a woman was crying into her drink. The whole place stank of desperation and bad decisions.
She found table six. Pasted on the smile.
"Hey there, sweetheart. You look lonely."
The man looked up. Middle-aged. Tired. Probably married. Definitely too drunk to know better.
"I am," he said.
She sat down. Crossed her legs. Let her skirt ride up just enough.
"Tell me about it."
He did. He talked for an hour. Bought her three drinks she didn't drink and tipped her thirty dollars she did keep. By the time her shift ended, the bruise on her neck had darkened to something purple, something obvious. She didn't bother covering it.
The walk home was cold. Southside in October was a gray, wet misery, the kind of cold that settled in your bones and stayed there. She pulled her jacket tighter. Lit a cigarette. The flame flickered in the wind, and for a second, her shadow stretched long and twisted on the sidewalk—horns curving up from her head, tail swishing behind her.
She blew smoke at the sky.
Dante's apartment was on the way. She stopped outside without meaning to. The light was on in the kitchen window. She could see his silhouette moving behind the curtain.
She stood there for a long minute. Then she dropped the cigarette, crushed it under her heel, and kept walking.
The apartment was quiet when she got home. Ashanti was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching something on her phone. Logan's door was closed. James's too.
"You look like shit," Ashanti said.
"Thanks."
"There's whiskey on the counter."
"I don't want whiskey."
"There's leftover pizza in the fridge."
Jackie paused. She'd been about to head to her room, to collapse on her mattress, to sleep for a hundred years. But pizza. Her stomach growled.
She went to the fridge. Opened it. Cold pizza, pepperoni and jalapeño, three slices left. She grabbed the box and dropped onto the couch beside Ashanti.
"You hear from James?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"They've been gone all day."
"They're fine. Logan's with him."
"You're worried."
"I'm not."
"You're doing that thing where you stare at your phone and pretend you're not worried."
Ashanti flipped her off. Jackie laughed.
She ate the pizza cold. Ashanti's phone rang. She answered on the first ring.
"Yeah?"
Jackie watched her face—the way it flickered from hope to relief to something harder. Something she couldn't name.
"Okay," Ashanti said. "We'll be here."
She hung up.
"They're on their way back."
"And?"
"And nothing. They got the information. They're coming home."
Jackie nodded. Took another bite of pizza.
The bruise on her neck pulsed. She could still smell Dante on her skin. Still feel him inside her. She'd wash it off later. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd keep it a little longer, just to feel something.
"Hey," Ashanti said. "You okay?"
Jackie looked at her. At this woman who'd fallen into her life three years ago and never left. At the chaos and the magic and the stubborn, stupid loyalty.
"No," she said. "But I will be."
Ashanti didn't push. Just leaned over, resting her head on Jackie's shoulder.
They sat like that. Waiting for the boys to come home.
And somewhere across the city, Dante was pouring himself another glass of gin.
Jackie finished the last slice of cold pizza and wiped her hands on her thighs. The grease left dark smears on the fishnets. She didn't care. The bruise on her neck had settled into a dull throb, keeping time with her heartbeat.
Ashanti had gone quiet beside her. Not the comfortable kind of quiet. The other kind. The kind that meant she was chewing on something and didn't want to spit it out.
"You gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"
Ashanti didn't look up from her phone. "Nothing's wrong."
"Bullshit."
"I'm serious."
"You're a terrible liar."
Ashanti locked her phone. Set it face-down on the couch cushion. Her jaw worked like she was grinding her teeth down to nothing.
"They've been gone fifteen hours."
"They're fine."
"You don't know that."
"No." Jackie stretched her legs out, cracked her toes. "But I know Logan. He's not gonna let anything happen to James. And James is too mean to die."
Ashanti laughed. It came out hollow.
"You're worried about more than the meeting," Jackie said.
Silence. Long enough that Jackie started counting the water stains on the ceiling. She got to eleven before Ashanti spoke.
"He's been different lately."
"Logan?"
"Yeah."
"Different how?"
Ashanti pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Distant. Like he's somewhere else even when he's here. Like he's waiting for something."
"He's a werewolf. They're all like that."
"This is different."
Jackie turned to look at her. Really look. Ashanti's face was carefully blank—the kind of blank that took practice. The kind that meant she was feeling too much and refusing to show any of it.
"You think he's gonna leave?"
"I think he's already halfway gone."
They sat with that. The radiator clanked. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor's dog started barking at nothing.
"You could ask him," Jackie said.
"Ask him what? 'Hey, are you planning to disappear? Just curious.'"
"You could try talking. Like normal people."
"We're not normal people."
"Fair point."
The front door rattled. Keys jangled. Then it swung open, and James stumbled through with a woman Jackie had never seen before. She was tall, blonde, leggy in a way that made Jackie want to trip her. James was grinning. Drunk or something close to it.
"Ladies," he said, sweeping a bow that almost sent him into the wall. "We have returned."
The woman giggled. Jackie hated her immediately.
And then Logan came through the door.
He had a girl on his arm too. Small, dark-haired, with a face that was almost too pretty. She was wearing a cropped sweater and ripped jeans and she moved like she owned every room she walked into. Logan's hand rested on the small of her back. Casual. Possessive.
Jackie felt Ashanti go rigid beside her.
The girl looked up at Logan and said something Jackie couldn't hear. He nodded. Didn't smile. But he didn't pull away either.
James was already steering his blonde toward his bedroom. "Night, everyone. Don't wait up."
The door clicked shut behind him. Then the muffled sounds started—giggling, rustling, the creak of bedsprings.
Logan's girl looked at Jackie. Then at Ashanti. Her expression flickered—something like recognition, something like curiosity—but she didn't say anything. Just turned back to Logan and tugged at his sleeve.
"Come on," she said. "Show me the room."
Logan didn't look at Ashanti. Didn't look at Jackie. Just nodded and led the girl down the hall.
The bedroom door closed.
Silence.
Jackie didn't know what to say. She'd seen Ashanti angry, sad, horny, annoyed, drunk, and every combination in between. But she'd never seen her like this—blank. Empty. Like someone had reached inside her and pulled out all the wires.
"Ashanti—"
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I'm fine."
The sounds started. Low at first—a murmur, a laugh, the rustle of clothes hitting the floor. Then louder. The girl's voice, breathy and high, saying Logan's name like a prayer. The creak of the mattress. A moan.
Ashanti stared at the wall. Didn't blink. Didn't move.
Jackie reached for her hand. Squeezed.
"Let's go to my room," she said. "Watch something stupid. Drink something stronger."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
The girl's moans got louder. The bed rhythm picked up. Through the thin walls, Jackie could hear everything—every gasp, every thrust, every filthy word that spilled out of that pretty mouth.
Ashanti's jaw tightened. Her hands stayed still in her lap.
"Ashanti."
"I need to go to bed."
She stood up. Blanket fell off her shoulders. She didn't pick it up.
She walked down the hall. Past James's door. Past Logan's door. Paused for one second—just one—with her hand hovering over the knob like she might go in. Like she might interrupt. Like she might do something stupid.
Then she kept walking. Into her own room. The door closed with a soft click.
Jackie sat on the couch. Alone. The sounds from both bedrooms filled the apartment, a stereo of other people's pleasure. She pulled her knees to her chest. Lit another cigarette. She didn't smoke inside usually, but fuck it.
She smoked the whole thing down to the filter. Stubbed it out on the arm of the couch. Then she went to her room and closed the door and pretended she couldn't hear anything at all.
Morning came gray and ugly through the grimy windows. Jackie woke to a crick in her neck and the taste of stale pizza in her mouth. She'd slept in her clothes. Again.
She dragged herself out of bed. Padded to the bathroom. Peed, brushed her teeth, stared at the bruise on her neck in the mirror. It had gone purple-black overnight. She'd have to cover it with makeup before work.
She walked to the kitchen. The coffee pot was empty. The whiskey was gone. She opened the fridge—nothing but condiments and a sad half-onion.
Ashanti's door was open. Jackie peeked in. The bed was made. The room was clean. Too clean. All of Ashanti's things were gone—her jacket, her boots, the tarot deck that usually sat on the nightstand, the dried herbs hanging from the window frame.
Jackie's stomach dropped.
She checked the other rooms. James was sprawled across his bed, alone, snoring. His blonde was gone. Logan's door was still closed—the girl was probably still in there.
But Ashanti was gone.
Jackie went back to the living room. Scanned the apartment. No note. No text. She pulled out her phone—no messages. No missed calls.
She called Ashanti. Straight to voicemail.
She called again. Same thing.
She stood in the middle of the apartment, phone in hand, heart hammering. The place felt emptier than it should. Like something vital had been removed.
She called James's name. Loud. Sharp.
He stumbled out of his room, rubbing his eyes. "What the fuck, Jackie?"
"Ashanti's gone."
He blinked. "What?"
"Gone. Left. Packed her shit and disappeared."
He looked at Logan's door. Then back at Jackie.
"When?"
"Don't know. Sometime this morning. I woke up and she was gone."
James ran a hand through his hair. Cursed under his breath.
"Did she say anything last night? Anything at all?"
Jackie thought about it. Thought about the blank look on Ashanti's face. The way she stared at the wall while Logan fucked someone else. The way she said she was fine like she was trying to convince herself.
"She saw Logan bring that girl home."
James winced. "Shit."
"Yeah."
"Where would she go?"
"I don't know. She doesn't have family. Doesn't have other friends."
"She has us."
"Apparently not enough."
James's jaw tightened. He looked at Logan's door again, and something hard crossed his face—anger, maybe. Or disappointment.
"Wake him up."
"What?"
"Wake him up. Now."
Jackie walked to Logan's door. Knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, harder.
"I don't care if you're mid-fuck," she shouted. "Get out here."
A long moment. Then the door opened.
Logan stood there in his boxers. Behind him, the girl was still tangled in the sheets, barely conscious. He looked at Jackie, then at James. His expression was unreadable.
"What."
"Ashanti's gone," Jackie said.
Logan stared at her. Didn't blink.
"Gone where?"
"If we knew that, we wouldn't be standing here."
He was silent. The girl in the bed stirred, lifted her head.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Nothing," Logan said. "Go back to sleep."
She did. Just like that.
Logan stepped into the hall. Closed the door behind him.
"When did she leave?"
"Don't know. Sometime this morning. She took all her shit."
Logan's jaw worked. His eyes flickered amber for half a second, then back to brown.
"She say anything?"
"No."
He looked at James. James looked at him.
"You know where she'd go?" James asked.
Logan didn't answer.
"Logan."
"I don't know."
"You're not even trying."
"What do you want me to do, James? Track her? She's a witch. She can cover her scent."
"You're a werewolf. You can find anyone."
"She doesn't want to be found."
"She didn't leave a note. She didn't call. That's not someone who wants space—that's someone who's in trouble."
Logan's jaw tightened. He didn't say anything.
Jackie watched them. The tension between them was thick enough to choke on. James was angry—fists clenched, face flushed. Logan was something else. Not angry. Not worried. Something worse.
Nowhere.
"I'll find her," Logan said.
"Good."
"But I'm not doing it for you."
James laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. "Then who the fuck are you doing it for?"
Logan didn't answer. He turned and walked back into his room. The door closed and locked.
Jackie looked at James. James stared at the door.
"She'll be okay," Jackie said.
James didn't look at her. "I know."
"Then why do you look like someone died?"
He didn't answer. Just walked to the kitchen and started drinking straight from the whiskey bottle.
Jackie stood there. The apartment felt colder than usual. The radiator clanked. The wind rattled the windows.
And somewhere out there, Ashanti was walking through a city that didn't care about her. Carrying a broken heart and a deck of tarot cards and no place to go.
Jackie pulled out her phone. Typed a message.
Where are you?
She hit send. Waited.
No response.
She typed again.
Please.
No response.
She watched the screen until it went dark. Then she shoved her phone in her pocket and went to find her shoes.
She had work in four hours. She'd get drunk first. That was the plan.
But if Ashanti didn't text back by midnight, she was going to find her herself.