Page 92 of Hide From Me

“Don’t tell me he’s fuckin’ here too,” Moe murmurs, eyes sweeping the room like he’s searching for something or someone.

My stomach twists. Did he meet his dad today? I didn’t even think to ask. Shit. Am I already failing at this whole supportive whatever-the-fuck-we-are?

“He didn’t have much of a choice,” the older man chuckles. “I may have made this meal mandatory.”

I can’t focus on him, though, because the place is packed. Booths crowded with tattooed men and the kind of women who look like they bite, not kiss. The bar’s shoulder-to-shoulder. Everyone’s loud. Andthen—

“I guess the little nuisance isn’t as easy to scare off as I hoped,” a deep voice rumbles, low and slow, and I freeze.

“King,” the man says, extending a hand.

I look at it. Then back to his eyes. Then back again.

“Does he always wear that thing?” I whisper, not giving a single shit who hears me. His eyes glint like he’s amused—at least Ithinkthat’s amusement. Hard to tell when his entire damn face is covered by a mask that looks like it was cut from a black T-shirt and turned into a war crime.

Moe clears his throat behind me, hands dropping to my waist with a subtle squeeze. I squirm. What the hell,hero, you’re using me as a human shield now?

“I do,” King says smoothly. “Gets old watching women drop to your feet everywhere you go.”

My nose scrunches as I try not to laugh—but a snort slips out anyway.

“Big ego?” I ask, and the fabric over his face shifts as he lets out a full laugh.

“Ray,” Moe says, tone exasperated but fond. “Obviously, you’ve met the mammoth—sorry,King. That man there is Jon, and—”

“Delilah’s on the table over there,” Jon interrupts, raising his glass with a shit-eating grin and pointing straight across the bar.

Sure enough, a tiny woman is dancing barefoot on top of a round table like she owns the place, hair flying, a beer in one hand and no shame in sight.

“Uh—” I open my mouth to ask what kind of fever dream we just stepped into, but Moe squeezes my hip again. Not hard. Not controlling. Just… steadying.

“I’m sure after a while, both of you will meet Larkin,” Jon says casually, like he didn’t just throw another wild name into this circus.

King grumbles beside him, “Shouldn’t’ve fuckin’ come.”

“Larkin?” Moe asks, distracted, but I’m too focused on the way King’s leaning in to whisper something to the waitress he flagged down. She nods quickly, cheeks flushed.

“I thought you hated attention,” I say, eyeing him as the woman practically runs off, dazed.

“Caught me there, Schatz,” King replies, eyes crinkling behind the mask in a way that reminds me of Moe when he smiles for real—and I hate that it makes me smile too.

“Larkin’s my boss,” Jon says, taking another long sip of his drink. “She’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but you’ll get used to her.”

He tips his head like he’s excusing himself and moves through the crowd toward Delilah, who’s now got an audience cheering her on.

I stand there in the middle of it all, still gripping Moe’s hand, trying to make sense of the strange, smoke-filled kingdom he’s invited me into.

And not for the first time, I wonder how many versions of him I haven’t met yet.

Moe doesn’t say anything as Jon disappears, just gently nudges me toward a booth with an open corner. King follows, grabbing a chair with one hand like it weighs nothing and spinning it backward to sit astride it.

The waitress he’d flirted with returns a minute later, arms full—two beers for Moe and me, and something darker for King.

I shoot Moe a look, but apparently he can't read the“what the fuck have you drug me into"look on my face because all he does is smirk.

“I figured you owed her a drink,” King adds, gesturing toward me with his glass. “For dragging her into this circus without warning.”

“Still not convinced I’m not being punked,” I mutter, but I take the beer anyway, grateful for something to ground me.