Page 4

B illie Ann slipped behind the bar, her steps quiet, almost instinctual.

This had been her second home for so long that movement around here was like muscle memory.

Without making a fuss, she reached for a bottle of whiskey she knew Davey had always kept tucked just behind the register.

She didn’t usually drink, especially not alone, but today wasn’t usual.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she poured the amber liquid into a shot glass. The weight of everything—Davey’s funeral, the flood of condolences, the eyes watching her like she might break—was too much. She lifted the glass and knocked it back without hesitation.

The burn was immediate and harsh, coiling down her throat like fire. She winced, coughing softly. “Damn,” she muttered under her breath. “That was awful.” But the sharp edge of it helped dull the ache inside her, if only for a heartbeat.

A sharp whistle broke her focus, and her brows furrowed as she glanced around. The crowd had thinned, people slowly filtering out, their faces tired and tear-worn. She looked toward the sound but saw nothing; maybe she imagined it. Grief had a way of playing tricks on your senses.

Still holding the glass, she sighed and poured another. She didn't care if it burned twice as much. It was better than letting herself unravel. She tossed it back with a bit more grit this time, then rinsed the shot glass in the sink behind the bar.

And that’s when she felt it...that stare.

She looked up, and her eyes locked with his.

The stranger. Tall, dark, and very handsome like he’d been carved out of danger and silence.

His gaze didn’t waver, and for a split second, Billie Ann forgot how to breathe.

There was something in his expression that was like a magnet, making her want to get closer to him.

Her stomach fluttered uneasily. Something about him made her feel exposed, like he could see through her bravado and right into the tangled mess she was trying so hard to keep buried.

She turned away quickly, trying to shake off the feeling, but she couldn’t help it. Her mind circled back to the small group he’d been standing with earlier. Mac, Zelda, and Thorne. All of them huddled in low conversation, glancing her way more than once.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew when people were talking about her.

The question was...about what?

“Billie.”

She froze, eyebrows furrowing as she heard her name echo from the direction of the kitchen. The bar was nearly empty now, shadows creeping in from the back as the night wore on.

“Billie Ann, down here, dammit! Are you blind and deaf? I’ve been whistling like a damn canary trying to get your attention!”

Her brow lifted. “Bruce?”

“No, it’s God. I’ve descended in feline form to pass judgment on your terrible drink choices.” Bruce snorted and motioned for her to follow him with his head. “Keep the lights off.”

Rolling her eyes, she stepped inside and promptly cracked her knee against the edge of a metal prep table.

“I’m going to kill myself,” she groaned, grabbing her knee as pain shot up her leg. “Why the hell can’t I turn on the lights?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m here,” Bruce’s voice came from somewhere near the back. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Can’t have anyone seeing me… like this. ”

Still rubbing her leg, Billie Ann squinted and carefully made her way through the kitchen, following his voice.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and there he was, perched on the stainless steel counter near the sink, tail tucked tight around his body, his black fur slightly ruffled, and his ears drooped more than usual.

Her heart squeezed. Sighing, she hopped up on the counter and sat next to him. “You okay?”

There was a long pause. Bruce stared off toward the far wall, not meeting her eyes. “The Bruce doesn’t cry in public. Ever. Especially not in front of Fat Bastard. He’d never let me live it down.”

Billie Ann grinned at that.

“But dammit, Billie.” His voice cracked, low and rough. “Davey’s gone. Just like that. No warning. No time for a goodbye. I… I didn’t even get to tell him he still owed me two cans of tuna.”

Her throat tightened. “Yeah. It doesn’t feel real, does it?”

Bruce shook his head, eyes still locked on nothing. “He made the best fried catfish, never skimped on snacks, and always let me sleep on the good chair, even when he pretended to be annoyed about it. He let us hold our poker games here when Wanda threw us out of the Assjacket Diner.”

“Why did you get thrown out of Wanda’s place?” Billie Ann glanced over at him. A talking cat who played poker would freak most humans out, but being raised here in Assjacket, she had met all kinds of paranormals. To her, this conversation was totally normal.

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. “Fat Bastard and I got into a fight. Claws came out, and fur was flying because he said I was cheating.”

“Were you?” Billie Ann cocked her eyebrow. She knew Bruce well.

Bruce finally looked at her. “You wound me.” He said, then shrugged as much as a cat could shrug. “And for your information, I wasn’t cheating... that time.”

“So, Wanda tossed you guys out,” Billie said, swinging her legs back and forth on the counter.

“Yeah, said it was unsanitary.” He snorted in disgust. “I’m the cleanest cat you’ll ever meet. I lick my balls daily.”

“Too much info, Bruce.” Billie Ann said, shaking her head.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t want to know all the tea, don’t ask.” Bruce shot back. “Reach behind that container and grab that bottle.”

Frowning, Billie Ann reached behind it and felt the bottle. “Was Davey drinking a lot?” She heard the worry in her own voice as she asked that question. Davey took a few shots and drank a beer or two, but she never knew him to have a problem.

“Nah, he kept that back here for our poker games,” Bruce said as she sat up. “Open it up and give me a swig or two.”

Billie Ann realized her life had been extraordinary compared to other humans as she enabled a cat with booze.

“He loved you. You know that, don’t you?” Bruce said, wiping his mouth with the back of his paw.

She did know that. Billie blinked rapidly, pressing her lips together as she looked around the kitchen, imagining Davey’s heavy footsteps, the jingle of his keys, his low, grumbly humming as he prepped for the day. The silence now felt deafening.

“I keep expecting to hear him banging around back here, yelling about how I stacked the glasses wrong,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

For a while, they sat there in silence, in the dark. One grieving woman and one proud, heartbroken cat. She was finding quiet comfort in the company of someone who loved Davey just as much as she did.

“Yeah, I’m going to miss him,” Bruce said, clearing his throat. “Even when the old bastard tried to give me cat treats.”

“The Bruce doesn’t do cat treats?” Billie Ann teased with a half grin.

“The Bruce doesn’t do cat treats.” He agreed with a nod. Then he used his paw to push the bottle in her hand toward her. “Go ahead. I don’t have germs. You probably need that more than me.”

“You just told me you licked your balls daily.” Billie Ann eyed him. “I think I’ll pass.”

They stared at each other for a second, and then burst out laughing. It was the kind of laughter that comes when you’re holding too much inside and need something, anything, to crack it open. For just a moment, the weight of grief lifted enough to let in a little light.

It was right then that the kitchen lights clicked on, flooding the space and making them both wince.

“Dammit,” Bruce muttered, throwing a paw dramatically over his face. “Turn the lights off, man. We were having a moment.”

Billie Ann blinked against the harsh brightness, squinting as her eyes adjusted. She caught Mac eyeing the whiskey bottle still clutched in her hand. With a sly glance toward Bruce, she held it out toward him.

“You want a swig?” she offered with a mischievous grin.

“If that’s Bruce’s stash, hell no,” Mac said with a dramatic shudder. “I’ve seen him lick his balls.”

Billie Ann lost it. The laughter bubbled up and burst out of her before she could stop it.

The two shots she'd thrown back must’ve kicked in, loosening the edges of her grief just enough for the giggles to take over.

She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking as Bruce mumbled something about "double standards" and "feline hygiene. "

When she finally caught her breath, she looked up and her laughter quieted the second her eyes met the stranger’s intense stare.

He stood just beyond Mac, tall and still, watching her with a look she couldn't quite name. He didn’t smile fully, just a small curve of his mouth that made her pulse skip for no good reason. His eyes held hers, steady and unflinching, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away.

Mac cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he gestured between them. “Billie Ann, this is Rafe. He’s the one I called in to find out who did this to Davey.”

Rafe stepped forward, giving her a respectful nod. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, his voice deep and masculine.

Billie Ann straightened, still holding the whiskey bottle, her gaze never leaving his. “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer now. “Davey… he was everything to me.”

“I know,” Rafe replied. “That’s why I’m here.”

His words sent her heart racing, but she didn’t know exactly why. The kitchen went quiet again, not heavy this time, but full. Full of unspoken words, shared understanding, and the strange spark of something new and unexpected.

Bruce, never one to let a moment settle, let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, this just got all kinds of Hallmark real quick. Anybody got tissues?”

“I see you still think you’re funny,” Rafe said to Bruce with a smirk.

“Good to see you, Rafe,” Bruce replied, then stood and stretched. “And I’ve always been funny, you just don’t have a sense of humor.”

Billie Ann shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she glanced down at the grumpy furball beside her. She passed the bottle back to him and hopped off the counter.

“You okay?” Mac asked gently, his voice full of brotherly concern.

“No,” she admitted, then glanced at Rafe before looking away. “But I’m working on it.”