Page 43 of You Owe Me

She’ll smile and pack snacks in the bag I won’t actually use. She’ll tell me to hug Pops for her. Text her when I land. Bring back a sweatshirt that smells like sawdust and old leather from his chair.

And I’ll lie to her face.

I’ll check into some off-map hotel a few towns over. Give a fake name if I have to. Show up at the hospital alone, let them burn the glitch out of me, and disappear until I look stable enough to sell the story.

I’ll come home tired, not stitched. Quiet, not bleeding. Just enough to pass as a guy worn out by family obligation, not a guy who almost let his heart go code red.

The guilt settles low, behind my ribs. Heavy and constant. But manageable. Like the rest of it.

I hate that I’m lying to her.

I hate that I have to.

But this secrecy? It’s protection. It’s strategy.

It’s the only way I keep the people I love from building a cage around me with their concern.

This is the cost of keeping everything else alive.

And I’ll pay it every damn time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rumor has it, she witnessed a massacre at Spuds and Studs.

Ainsley

The onion rings at Spuds and Studs are criminally underrated, and I’m about to commit the crime of eating half the basket before Maverick even touches his sad little grilled chicken wrap. He’s sitting across from me in our usual booth, sleeves rolled up, brooding hard while staring at his food like it personally offended his entire bloodline.

“You’re making that wrap cry,” I say, snatching another onion ring. “Either eat it or let me put it out of its misery.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I’m trying to remember what joy tastes like.”

“You act like grilled chicken is a personal attack.”

“It is. It’s a punishment. Probably biblical.” His voice is flat, but there’s something underneath it, exhaustion, maybe, or the kind of tension that comes from carrying too much weight for too long.

I grin around my food, trying to lighten whatever dark mood has settled over him like fog. “So what’s with the existential dread? You’ve been stuck in broody mob boss mode for a while now.”

“Just tired.” His tone is clipped. It’s classic Maverick fordrop it, James.

Naturally, I don’t. “Tired, or plotting someone’s downfall? Because you’ve got the energy of a man who buried a body in the woods last night.”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t look up from his tragic meal. “Work.”

“That’s it? Work?” I lean forward, studying his face. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there this morning, and that muscle in his jaw keeps jumping like he’s grinding his teeth. “Fine people don’t order the saddest wrap on the menu and glare at it like they’re trying to will it into a double bacon cheeseburger.”

He finally picks up the wrap, but it’s all for show. One limp bite, then he’s done, setting it back down like it’s contaminated. The restaurant buzzes around us. It’s the weekend crowd: ketchup-covered toddlers screaming in delight or protest (impossible to tell which) and overworked servers trying to do the job of six people. But Maverick looks like he’s in another dimension entirely.

“You know I’m gonna keep poking until you crack, right?” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re not slick. You’ve been quiet all week, and not in your sexy-sociopath way. In the I-might-be-actively-imploding way.”

His eyes flick to mine, and for half a second, they soften. He looks exhausted, like whatever weight he’s carrying has finally started to bend steel. But then the mask drops back into place, his walls slamming shut.

“Contracts,” he mutters, voice dry as dust. “Timelines. Numbers. You know, boring shit that keeps people from going to jail or bankruptcy.”

I open my mouth to press again, because I can smell bullshit from a mile away, and this reeks of it.

And then a shadow falls across our table.

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