Page 64 of Misery

Seven days since I said things that can't be unsaid.

Seven days of them avoiding Bubba's, avoiding me, avoiding the wreckage I created with words sharp enough to cut through bone.

The bar is busier than usual tonight.

More club members than civilians.

They cluster near my section, a wall of leather and menace keeping watch.

After the black roses, nobody's taking chances.

Magnus sits at the corner where he can see both exits.

Tor's by the front door.

Even prospects who usually work the garage are here, trying to look casual while being obvious protection.

The air is thick with smoke and tension.

Every time the door opens, hands drift toward weapons.

Everyone's waiting for something to happen.

Los Coyotes to make a move. The mystery killer to surface. Something to break this suffocating holding pattern we've been in.

Oskar's in his usual spot at the end of the bar. Always watching. Always there.

But there's a careful distance between us now that makes my skin itch.

We haven't been alone since that night.

Haven't touched beyond necessary contact.

Like he's afraid I'll shatter if he gets too close.

Or maybe he's afraid of what I said to my father, afraid of being connected to someone who could be so cruel.

He nurses the same beer for an hour, eyes tracking every movement in the bar.

The muscle in his jaw ticks whenever someone gets too close to me, but he doesn't move from his spot.

Doesn't come behind the bar like he used to.

Maintains that professional distance that's driving me insane.

I pull another beer and slide it down the bar like I’ve done a million times before.

My hands don't shake anymore.

It’s a small victory, if I have any.

Big Tom grabs it with a nod of thanks, but goes back to his conversation about motorcycle parts.

Everything is normal. Routine. Everything I thought I wanted.

But it feels hollow now.

Like I'm playing a role.