Page 15 of Hurt

Jamie moved away from Grant and went to mingle. He was disproportionately friendly for a Weaver. Most people knew the gang for its famous austerity. It was part of the reason Grant liked him so much.

He approached the bar and took a stool. Grant didn’t have much experience with bars. Why would a man who didn’t drink come to a bar? Despite its tattered exterior, the place was clean. There was a strange sort of ambiance. For a place that was notoriously laden with the most violent people in the state, it was oddly peaceful.

Jamie’s laughter carried across the space, and Grant found himself smiling. He watched as the young man started a game of pool with Sid. The shy man was bigger than Jamie in every way, but he seemed frail in comparison to his boisterous personality.

“Soda, I’m guessing?”

Grant started at the voice. Without looking, he knew. He knew it was him.

There was a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder, and his arms were crossed as he looked over the bar at Grant. Wisps of poorly dyed hair were hanging in front of his face, dangling close to his bow-shaped lips.

“What?” Grant heard himself ask.

The man blinked once. “Is a soda too exciting? I think we’ve got some room temperature water somewhere. Or I could give you a napkin to chew on.” His blank face turned to irritation, lips twisting into a small scowl.

Grant laughed. He truly laughed. A laugh that bubbled up from the deepest parts of him and spilled out from his parted lips. He laughed so hard his stomach hurt and tears fell from his eyes. It wasn’t even that funny of a statement—but there was something about the way he said it. The completely serious way he suggested Grant might enjoy chewing on a napkin. Like it wouldn’t surprise him in the least. More than that, it had been ages since anyone had made a joke at Grant’s expense. Even before he took over the Weaver Syndicate, he and his brother had always given off a cold sort of dissonance. People didn’t feel comfortable around them, or they outright feared them.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s been a while since I’ve laughed like that.”

He stared at Grant for a moment before reaching around the bar and sliding a cold can of soda toward him. “Laughter is free, but feel free to leave a generous tip.”

Grant took the soda, tapping his fingernails on the aluminum can. “I’m Grant.”

“I don’t care,” the bartender responded as he turned away to get back to work.

Grant started laughing again, and it drew him back.

“Do you have some sort of condition?” he asked with his eyebrows drawn together.

“Up until recently, I would have told you no,” Grant mused, resting his chin in his hand and staring across the bar top at the surly bartender. “But now I’m not so sure.”

Grant met his eyes and held them. Muted music was filtering over the speaker system, the kind of music that you would hear at any store or restaurant. Not quite loud enough to interrupt a conversation but rather a gentle companion, tickling at your ear in a pleasant way. Just enough that you could pick out every other word. Enough that you could maybe recognize the melody if you listened hard enough.

It wasn’t as good as the music he had heard the bar tender play. What he had been playing couldn’t just be heard but felt.

“All right, well, good luck with that,” he said as he finally broke eye contact, looking away quickly.

“What’s your name?” Grant asked before he could turn away.

The muscles in his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s nice to want,” he snarked, turning away and moving to the other end of the bar.

Grant smiled. He could have called after him, but there was something in the guarded way he tensed up when Grant asked. A defensive posture that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.

Grant was used to dealing with all sorts of people. He was good at it. It was a skill he picked up after years of observing people, of standing with a pleasant smile and looking non-threatening. Roland couldn’t do it. He was just as smart and capable, but he couldn’t pretend like Grant could.

And that’s what it was. Grant could meet with the world’s deadliest men and women who would think nothing of killing every single person in this bar, and they would leave thinking he was as innocent as a kindergarten teacher. Their guard would slip, and they would treat him with kid gloves—unconsciously giving him the upper hand. His agreeable smile and twinkling eyes would hide the fact that he was every bit as ruthless as they were.

Which was why he recognized that look in the bartender’s eyes. He was frightened. And you didn’t corner a frightened animal. You had to lure it to you. Draw it in slowly, earn its trust.

Jamie plopped down beside him, swiping the can from Grant’s hand and popping the tab. “You mind?” he asked as he chugged the contents.

Grant was too preoccupied to object.

Smacking his lips, he set the can back on the bar. “Don’t be fooled by his face, that Sid is a swindler.”