CHAPTER FOUR

“So let me get this straight. You've owed the states over $200,000 for, what, two to three years now? And when they gave you a two-month forbearance period, you just decided to relax, thinking your debt would go poof, no?”

I glared at Fitz, sensing his mockery, especially as he switched from his usual American accent to a casual french one.

Hearing him recount everything I'd told him, I could finally see how stupid I'd been. Not once had I bothered to find a real, better-paying job, instead, settling for the small amounts Marcus gave me to help him train the junior recruits. If I was honest, I didn't deserve the payment—-Marcus was more than capable of training them himself. He only included me because he knew about my situation and the reason I’d moved to Seattle in the first place.

I ran my finger along the rim of glass, my gaze fixed on the amber liquid. 

“Yeah, I see how stupid that sounds now,” I sighed.

The amusement vanished from Fitz’s face as he took in my broken expression.

“No, come on, I was just joking. I get why you didn’t look for a job right away. You deserve a break. But reality doesn't care—-it comes and hits you when you least expect it.”

“Thanks.” I downed the last of my drink in one gulp, and slid the empty glass to Fitz. “I'm going to need more.”

“Bro, that was your fourth drink already. As your friend, I refuse to pour you more.”

“Please, Fitz, I need this.”

“No. What you need is to go home, relax, and figure out where to find a job that pays more than a thousand a month. ‘Cause if I understand you right, you need to start paying off the debt monthly, correct?”

“Yeah,” I replied, twisting my hand inside the shot glass and turning it around. “By November fifth,I have to pay at least $1700.”

Fitz whistled. “Damn, after expenses, I barely have $1,700 left over each month from this place. How’re you—” He stopped, realizing whatever he was about to say wasn’t going to be helpful.

I tapped the glass again, lifting it with a finger still inside. “One more shot. Please.”

He gave me a worried look. “No, one more might just be all it takes for you to stumble into a sewer on your way home. Here’s a deal,” he offered, pulling the glass from my hand and wiping it down. “If you don't order any more drinks, the bill’s on me but if you insist, you’re paying.”

“Fine. Keep your drinks, I'm going home.” I stood up,  grabbing my bag from the stool beside me.

I paused, looking around the bar, as the idea of asking for a job crossed my mind. Groove Haven wasn’t fancy— just simple and efficient, with eight stools and four tables set up in a corner, two stools per table.

On a normal night, those seats would have been filled by now with people unwinding after work, or regulars making their routine visits. But tonight, even an hour after Fitz opened, it was still mostly empty. Besides Fitz and me, only two other guys sat in a far corner, giving the place an almost deserted feel.

The dance floor—a modest space between the tables and Fitz’s bar counter—seemed to echo with loneliness. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen more than twenty people here at once all week—-a low turnout for a bar with a capacity of seventy to a hundred. Something was clearly off, though I wasn’t in the mood to ask.

“It usually picks up around ten.” Fitz said, coming to stand beside me.

I turned to him, unconvinced. This place used to be packed by seven. There were nights when Fitz would beg me to act as a waitress just to keep up with the crowd. If he was telling me it was slow now, then something was wrong, and I definitely wouldn’t be getting a job here. Not when he was barely keeping the place afloat.

“Oh, alright,” I glanced at my phone to check the time. 7:45pm. “I should get going then, leave you to your work.”

“Yeah.” He opened his arms, inviting me for a hug, which I accepted gladly.

I inhaled his familiar scent—a mix of the alcohol he served all night, the sandwiches he grilled in the kitchen, and a hint of his own natural, masculine scent. Despite his slightly disheveled appearance from working long hours, I loved the way he smelled. Fitz felt like family, even though he was just a friend I’d met two months ago when I moved here.

As we pulled apart, he tucked a stray lock of my chestnut hair behind my ear. We were both 5’7”, though Fitz liked to think he was an inch taller. The memory of our friendly debates over that always made me smile.

“You're going to be okay. Just take some time to rest, and maybe talk to Marcus about it. Who knows?” He shrugged. “He might know someone who’s hiring.”

“Thanks, Fitz.” I offered him a genuine smile, already weighing the pros and cons of his suggestion.

“Anytime, Osborn,” he replied, stepping back when the door to the bar swung open.

A group of six guys walked in, their voices raised in an argument—probably soccer players or something. 

“I guess that's my cue to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow, and let you know how it goes.”

“Sure. Get a good night's sleep.” He replied, moving back behind the counter as the guys approached.

I doubted I’d get any sleep at all, but I didn't argue. I just waved to him and stepped out into the refreshing night air.

****

I cringed at the girl staring back at me in the mirror. Dark, unmistakable bags sat under her eyes, and her gray pupils, once bright, looked tired and worn. A mane of chestnut waves fell limply over her shoulders, while her light brown skin seemed drained of its usual glow. Even her rose-pink lips had taken on a ghostly pallor.

It was the same every night. Blood, gore, screams, gunshots—all in my dreams. Sleep had become one of my least favorite activities, but my body demanded it, so I obliged. 

I turned on the tap, splashing the cold water onto my face, before wiping it with a paper towel. But nothing helped; one look at me, and you’d know I was running on fumes.

If Marcus saw me like this, he’d insist I go home to rest, so I opened the cupboard plastered to the white tiled walls above the sink in my bathroom, searching for my sleeping pills. When I grabbed the container, its lightness gave me a sinking feeling, and sure enough—it was empty. Another expense I couldn’t afford. How was I supposed to sleep now without them?

I stared at the container, debating. The nightmares were rough, but the constant reminder of my debt—the looming deadline I couldn’t shake—was beginning to feel even worse. The pills had become more than just a ticket to sleep; they calmed my nerves, and I desperately needed that calm right now.

I needed to talk to Marcus. Staying here in the dark, waiting for dawn, felt unbearable.

I walked back into my room, glancing at the alarm clock on my bedside. 5:45 a.m. Technically morning. I could hear cars on the street, and Marcus was an early riser—-maybe not this early, but I’d only have to wait almost another hour or so for him to open up. Better than sitting alone, in this small, cold apartment.

Without overthinking, I changed out of my nightie, throwing on a black tube top and navy-blue overalls. I squirted some toothpaste onto my finger, running it across my teeth and tongue, before rinsing quickly in the sink. Showering would have to wait; I’d taken one last night anyway. Once I finished, I grabbed a jacket from my bedroom cupboard.

I stole another glance at the bathroom mirror as I stood in my room. This time, the girl looking back at me seemed more determined than exhausted. That was enough for now.

Throwing on the jacket, I grabbed my phone, and headed out, only making it a few steps down the apartment stairs before I froze—two men in black masks stood at the bottom, one of them pointing a gun at me.

“Don't move or I'll shoot.”