Chapter 1: Pass to the Left
The bar smelled like stale beer and bad decisions.
Ravenna Moreau slid onto the rickety stool like she was doing it a favor, crossing her legs at the ankle and letting one black heel dangle. The seat wobbled. She didn't care. She'd sat on worse.
"Remind me again why we're here," she said, scanning the room with the enthusiasm of someone touring a sewage treatment plant.
Juniper Okafor dropped onto the stool beside her, already grinning. "Because you said, and I quote, 'if I have to look at another hipster with a mustache and a fucking ukulele, I'll set something on fire.'"
"That was about brunch."
"It applies universally."
Fair enough. Ravenna tugged at the hem of her black dress, the lacy fabric riding up her thighs. The octopus tattoo on her hip curled out from beneath the edge, one tentacle reaching toward her knee like it was trying to escape. She'd gotten it at nineteen, drunk on tequila and spite, and it remained one of her better decisions.
The bar itself was a monument to neglect. Neon signs buzzed on the walls, half of them missing letters. The jukebox in the corner wheezed out a country song so warped it sounded like the singer was drowning. A pool table dominated the back, its felt stained with decades of spilled beer and questionable bloodstains.
The TV above the dartboard blared a basketball game, the volume cranked so high the plastic stools vibrated beneath them. Every few seconds, a chorus of groans or cheers erupted from the cluster of men hunched over the bar, their eyes glued to the screen like it was the second coming.
Ravenna flagged down the bartender, a woman with a tattoo sleeve and the exhausted eyes of someone who'd seen everything twice. "Two double shots of Southern Comfort. And two cokes."
"Classy," Juniper said.
"It's tradition."
"It's punishment."
The bartender returned with four glasses, the amber liquid in the shot glasses catching the neon glow. Ravenna wrapped her fingers around hers, the glass warm against her palm.
Juniper raised her shot. "Pass to the left."
"Because the right way is wrong," Ravenna replied, the words automatic, worn smooth by years of repetition. They clinked glasses, the sound sharp and familiar.
Ravenna brought the shot to her lips and tipped it back.
The liquid hit her tongue like a chemical weapon.
She choked, sputtered, and slammed the glass down on the bar with enough force to rattle the bottles behind it. "Ugh, dude, who drinks this shit?" She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her face twisted into something between disgust and genuine offense. "It literally tastes like a homeless man's asshole and regret."
Juniper laughed, the sound warm and full, the kind of laugh that made strangers smile without knowing why. "You're the one who ordered it."
"I ordered it for nostalgia. I forgot nostalgia tastes like gasoline."
"You're so dramatic."
"I'm accurate. There's a difference."
Ravenna chased the shot with her coke, hoping the sugar would scrub the taste from her mouth. It didn't. She'd need a priest and possibly an exorcism.
The man beside her hadn't moved.
She'd noticed him when they'd first walked in, claiming the stool to her left like he'd been welded to it. He was watching the game with the quiet intensity of someone who actually cared about the outcome, his half-empty beer sweating onto the bar. Dark hair, cut short. Broad shoulders under a plain gray t-shirt. The kind of guy who didn't need to try too hard because he already knew who he was.
He hadn't looked at her once.
Not when she'd slid onto her stool. Not when she'd ordered. Not when she'd insulted his entire gender's taste in liquor with the subtlety of a brick through a window.
Ravenna didn't know why that bothered her.
Actually, she did. She had a mouth like a chainsaw and a personality that took up space, and she was used to being noticed. It was just how she operated. She walked into rooms and people turned. She said things and people laughed or got angry or got horny, but they always reacted.
This guy? Nothing.
She might as well have been a piece of furniture.
The thought had just settled into her brain when he turned his head and looked at her.
His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the dim light, and they held something she couldn't quite name. Amusement, maybe. A dry, patient kind of curiosity, like he was watching a nature documentary and she was the strange creature doing something unexpected.
"You know," he said, his voice low and even, "I've been nursing this beer for forty-five minutes. I was starting to think I'd made a mistake coming here."
Ravenna blinked. "Okay?"
"But then you said that thing about the homeless man's asshole, and I gotta say—" He paused, taking a slow sip of his beer. "Worth it."
Juniper snorted beside her, already turning away to hide her grin.
Ravenna stared at him. She had a response for everything. She prided herself on it. But something about the way he said it, so deadpan and unbothered, threw her off her game.
"That's your opening?" she finally managed. "Commenting on my critique of cheap whiskey?"
"It's better than 'do you come here often.'"
"Marginally."
"I'll take it."
He extended his hand, still holding his beer with the other. "Desmond. Most people call me Des."
She looked at his hand for a beat too long, then took it. His grip was firm, not too tight, the handshake of someone who didn't have anything to prove. His palm was warm.
"Ravenna," she said. "Most people call me whatever I tell them to."
"Noted."
Someone screamed at the TV—a player had missed a shot, or made one, Ravenna couldn't tell—and Des turned his head just slightly, tracking the screen without fully committing to it.
"You're not watching the game," he said.
"I'm not a fan of organized sports."
"That's a weird way to say you don't understand basketball."
Her mouth dropped open, just a little.
Juniper choked on her drink, coughing and laughing at the same time. "Oh, I like him."
"June, don't encourage him."
"I'm not encouraging him. I'm appreciating him. There's a difference."
Des's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but brushed up against one. His gaze flicked down, just for a second, catching the tentacles inked on her hip where the dress had ridden up.
Ravenna caught the look. She always caught the look.
"Eyes up here, Desmond."
His gaze returned to hers, unbothered. "I was looking at the octopus. It's nice."
"Are you a tattoo guy?"
"Not really."
"Then why were you looking?"
He shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. His third of the night, maybe. The man was practically a monk compared to the drunks surrounding them. "It looked like it was moving. Caught my attention."
"It's not alive."
"Good to know. I was worried you'd just casually stitched a live squid to your leg."
Ravenna's lips pressed together, fighting a smile she refused to let loose. "You're very annoying, you know that?"
"I've been told."
Juniper slid off her stool, her drink in hand. "I'm going to go find the bathroom. Or the jukebox. Something's broken in my brain, and I need to fix it." She patted Ravenna on the shoulder on her way past. "Play nice."
"Always do."
"You never do."
Juniper disappeared toward the back of the bar, her silhouette swallowed by the dim lighting and the crowd of bodies.
Ravenna turned back to Des, who had gone back to watching the game. His profile was sharp, angular, the kind of face that looked like it had been carved rather than born. There was a scar above his eyebrow, thin and pale, old enough to have faded into something barely noticeable.
"You live around here?" she asked.
"No."
"Then why are you at this bar?"
He took a breath, like the answer required some preparation. "I like places where nobody knows my name."
"That's either deep or serial-killer shit. I haven't decided which."
"Give it time."
She finished her coke, the taste of Southern Comfort still ghosting on her tongue. The jukebox had switched to a different song, something acoustic and mournful that made the bar feel smaller somehow.
"I'm usually not this friendly," she said.
"I figured."
"How?"
"You called a drink a homeless man's asshole within two minutes of walking in."
"In my defense, it deserved it."
"Oh, absolutely."
The neon light above the bar flickered, casting his face in alternating shades of pink and blue. He set his empty bottle on the counter, the glass making a soft clink against the wood. He turned toward her fully, his knee brushing her stool.
"So, Ravenna," he said, "what's a girl with a smart mouth and a philosophical octopus doing in a bar like this?"
She leaned in, close enough that he could probably smell the whiskey on her breath. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"Yeah." His voice dropped. "I would."
And there it was.
The shift.
The moment when the game stopped being a game and started being something else. Something with teeth.
Ravenna felt it in her chest, warm and dangerous, a spark catching on dry kindling. She was so used to this, the endless back-and-forth of flirtation, a script she'd memorized. But he wasn't following the script. He kept stepping off the page, saying things she didn't expect.
She opened her mouth to say something clever, something cutting, something that would remind them both that she was in charge.
"Desmond," she began.
"Just Des."
"No, I think I'll stick with Desmond. It sounds like you're in trouble."
He laughed, a low, quiet sound that barely moved his face. "You're a menace."
"I've been called worse."
"By who? The homeless men whose whiskey you're insulting?"
"They can't hear me. They're dead."
His laugh this time was louder, surprised out of him. It lit something in his eyes, a warmth that cut through the cold of the bar.
Ravenna should have stopped. She had a hundred reasons to stop. She had rules, and one of them was never to get interested in guys who hang out in bars alone. Those guys were either running from something or hiding from everything, and she didn't have the energy for either.
But she didn't stop.
She didn't want to.
Juniper reappeared, her smile wide and knowing. "What'd I miss?"
"Nothing," Ravenna said, too fast.
"Mm-hmm." Juniper settled back onto her stool, looking between them like she'd just won the lottery. "Sure."
Des turned back to the game, but his knee stayed where it was, still brushing against her stool. A small point of contact. An anchor.
Ravenna ordered another drink. Des stayed where he was, watching the game, occasionally glancing at her like she was the real show.
Des stayed where he was, watching the game, occasionally glancing at her like she was the real show.
Ravenna flagged the bartender again. "Two more doubles. Southern Comfort. And leave the bottle."
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. Smart woman.
Juniper leaned over, her voice low. "You're going to die."
"I'm going to have fun dying."
The shots arrived. Ravenna grabbed the first one and threw it back before she could think about the taste. It burned going down, that familiar gasoline heat spreading through her chest. She grabbed the second one and did the same, her throat protesting, her eyes watering just a little.
"Jesus Christ," Juniper muttered.
Ravenna slammed the empty glass down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse, tapped one out, and lit it with a flick of her lighter. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling, mixing with the neon haze.
Des was watching her now. Fully. The game had become background noise.
She took a long drag, let the smoke out slow, and turned to face him. The whiskey was doing its job, warming her blood, loosening something tight in her chest.
"Okay, mister hot mysterious guy," she said, pointing the cigarette at him like an accusation. "I don't see a ring." She gestured at his left hand with her chin. "You married?"
His expression didn't change. "No."
"Got baby mamas?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Brief. Almost imperceptible. "No."
"Crazy psycho ex-girlfriends? Because I've got a sixth sense for that shit, and you're giving off some serious 'my ex tried to key my car' energy."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "No psycho exes."
"So what's your deal, then? You're too calm. Too..." She waved her cigarette in a vague circle. "Still. Guys who sit alone in bars and nurse one beer for an hour are usually running from something."
Des took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
"You're not wrong," he said.
"About which part?"
"All of it."
Ravenna narrowed her eyes. The whiskey made everything softer around the edges, but her instincts were still sharp. There was something underneath his stillness, something coiled and patient, like a snake in tall grass.
"What are you running from, Desmond?"
He met her gaze and didn't blink. "Who says I'm running?"
"Nobody runs unless there's something chasing them."
The jukebox switched songs. Something with a heavy bass line that vibrated through the sticky floor. A few people wandered toward the pool table, their laughter loud and sloppy.
Des reached over and took the cigarette from her fingers. He brought it to his lips, took a drag, and handed it back. His mouth had touched where hers had been. The casual intimacy of it hit her harder than the whiskey.
"You ask a lot of questions," he said.
"You don't answer a lot of questions."
"I'm not a fan of interviews."
"Neither am I. But you're interesting, and I'm drunk, and my best friend over here is giving me the 'please don't embarrass us' eyes, so I figure I might as well go all in."
Juniper snorted. "I am not giving you eyes. I'm giving you my full support. This is the most entertainment I've had in months."
Des looked at Juniper, then back at Ravenna. Something shifted in his face—a decision being made behind those dark eyes.
"You want to know what I'm running from?" he asked.
"Only if you want to tell me."
"I don't."
"Then don't."
He studied her for a long moment. The neon light buzzed overhead, flickering pink and blue across his sharp features. He looked like a man who had been carved out of something harder than bone.
"I'm not running from anything," he said finally. "I'm just... between things."
"Between things."
"Between chapters."
Ravenna took another drag of her cigarette, the smoke filling her lungs. "That's a very literary way of saying 'none of your business.'"
"Is it working?"
"No."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"I like you," he said. "That's a problem."
"For who?"
"For you, probably."
Ravenna laughed, the sound sharp and sudden. "Wow. That's the most ominous thing anyone's said to me all year. And I work in customer service."
"You should be scared of me."
She leaned closer, close enough that she could smell him—something clean underneath the bar's grime. Soap and something else. Something metallic. "Should I?"
He didn't answer.
Juniper cleared her throat. "Okay, I'm going to go dance with that guy before this gets any weirder. Rae, text me if you need a rescue."
"Noted."
Juniper slid off her stool, drink in hand, and disappeared into the crowd. Ravenna watched her go, then turned back to Des.
"You're not going to tell me anything real, are you?"
Des took the cigarette from her again, took another drag, and stubbed it out on the bar's edge. He didn't hand it back this time.
"I'm going to tell you something real," he said. "But not here."
"Where?"
He stood. He was taller than she'd realized, broad and solid, the kind of body that took up space without apology. He pulled a wallet from his back pocket, dropped two twenties on the bar, and looked down at her.
"My car's outside."
Ravenna's heart kicked against her ribs. The smart thing to do was say no. Walk away. Find Juniper and go home and sleep off the whiskey and forget about the mysterious man with the dark eyes and the hidden scars.
She stood up.
"Lead the way."
The parking lot was empty except for a black SUV parked under a broken streetlight. It was too clean for this neighborhood, too expensive for this bar. Ravenna noticed but didn't comment.
Des opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in. The leather seats were cool against her bare thighs.
He got in the driver's side, closed the door, and suddenly the world shrank to just the two of them. The silence was different here. Heavier.
"So," she said. "Something real."
Des gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles pale. He stared out the windshield at the flickering streetlight.
"I own things," he said. "Things people pay a lot of money for."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind that keep me up at night."
Ravenna turned in her seat to face him. The whiskey was still warm in her blood, but the fog was clearing. She was starting to see the shape of something underneath his words.
"Are you a criminal, Desmond?"
He looked at her then. Really looked. And for a second, she saw it—the thing he'd been hiding all night. The weight. The exhaustion. The cold, hard edge of a man who had done things most people only saw in movies.
"Does it matter?" he asked.
"Should it?"
"That depends on what you want from me."
Ravenna thought about it. She thought about her empty apartment and her empty bed and the endless parade of men who meant nothing. She thought about the way her heart was beating, fast and hard, not from fear but from something else. Something hungry.
"I want you to stop lying to me," she said. "Even if the truth is ugly."
Des laughed. It wasn't a warm sound. It was dark and broken and it made the hair on her arms stand up.
"The truth is always ugly," he said. "That's why people like you don't want to hear it."
"People like me?"
"People who ask questions they don't want answers to."
Ravenna unbuckled her seatbelt and moved across the console, straddling his lap. The steering wheel dug into her back. She didn't care.
"You don't know what I want," she said.
Des's hands found her hips. His grip was firm, possessive, his fingers digging into the lace of her dress.
"Then tell me."
She leaned down, her mouth close to his ear. "I want to feel something real. Even if it hurts. Even if it's a mistake."
His breath hitched. Just barely. Just enough for her to notice.
"You're drunk," he said.
"I'm not that drunk."
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
The words hung between them, heavy and electric. Des's jaw tightened. His hands slid from her hips to her ass, pulling her closer, grinding her against him. She could feel him through his jeans—thick and hard, pressing into her core.
"You really want this?" His voice was rough, stripped of its earlier calm.
Ravenna answered by kissing him.
It wasn't gentle. There was nothing soft about it. She bit his bottom lip and he groaned, one hand tangling in her hair, yanking her head back. His mouth found her throat, teeth grazing her skin, and she gasped.
"Say it," he growled. "Tell me you want it."
"I want it."
He pulled her dress up, yanking it over her head in one rough movement. She was wearing nothing underneath except a thin black thong. His eyes devoured her, hungry and dark, tracing the phoenix tattoo that spread across her back, the curves of her breasts, the pulse beating in her throat.
"You're beautiful," he said. Not a compliment. A fact.
"Stop talking."
He didn't.
He leaned forward and took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking hard. Ravenna cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. His tongue was hot and wet, laving circles around the tight bud, then he bit down—just enough to hurt, just enough to make her moan.
"Fucking hell," she breathed.
Des pulled back, his eyes black with want. He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock. It was thick and hard, the head already slick. Long. Longer than anything she'd had in a while. He grabbed her hips and positioned her over him.
"Last chance," he said.
"Stop asking."
He slammed into her.
Ravenna's vision went white. He was so deep, stretching her, filling her completely. Her nails raked down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake. She could feel every inch of him inside her, pulsing, waiting.
"Move," she demanded.
He complied.
His hands gripped her hips and he thrust up into her, hard and fast, no pretense of gentleness. The SUV rocked with the force of it. Ravenna's breath came in ragged gasps, her breasts bouncing with each brutal thrust.
"You like that?" His voice was a growl. "You like feeling me inside you?"
"Yes—fuck—yes."
He shifted his angle and hit something deep, something that made her see stars. She cried out, her head falling back, her whole body clenching around him.
"That's it," he said. "Come on my cock. Show me."
She was close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in her belly, and she was right there, right on the edge—
He stopped.
"No," she gasped. "Don't you dare—"
"Beg for it."
"What?"
"You heard me." He was still inside her, motionless, his breath hot against her ear. "Beg."
Ravenna's mind was a wreck, her body screaming for release. She hated him in that moment. Hated how he made her feel, how badly she wanted him, how easily he'd taken control.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
He smiled. It was a dangerous smile. "Good girl."
He thrust up, hard and deep, and the orgasm ripped through her like lightning. She screamed, her body convulsing, her nails breaking skin. Des followed a second later, driving into her one last time before spilling himself inside her with a guttural groan.
They stayed like that for a moment, tangled and breathless, the windows fogged with heat.
Then Des pulled out. He zipped up his jeans, reached into the backseat, and tossed her the dress.
"You should go," he said. His voice was flat. Controlled. Like the last twenty minutes hadn't happened.
Ravenna pulled her dress over her head, her hands shaking just a little. Her legs felt like jelly. Her heart was still hammering in her chest.
"What the hell was that?" she asked.
Des looked at her. The mask was back. The calm, unreadable man from the bar.
"That was something real."
She opened the door. The cold night air hit her like a slap.
"Will I see you again?"
He started the engine. "Probably not."
The window rolled up. The SUV peeled out of the parking lot, its taillights disappearing into the dark.
Ravenna stood there for a long time, her breath fogging in the cold, the taste of him still on her lips.
Her phone buzzed.
June: Where r u? Did u leave with hot mystery guy??
She typed back with numb fingers.
Ravenna: He left.
June: WHAT. R u ok?
Ravenna: I don't know.
She walked back toward the bar, her heels clicking on the cracked pavement, the neon glow of the dive bar blinking like a warning light.
She didn't notice the black car parked across the street.
She didn't notice the man inside, pressing a phone to his ear, speaking in a language she wouldn't understand.
She didn't know that Desmond Calloway was not just a man.
She didn't know that the cartel boss she'd just let fuck her in his SUV was the most dangerous man in three states.
She didn't know anything at all.
But she would.
Soon.