Chapter Sixty-Three
The dinner rush came and went, leaving the clubhouse smelling of charred meat, grease, and heavy pine cleaner. By ten at night, the loud crowd had finally thinned out to just a few lingering prospects whispering in the corner booths and Big Tom dozing over an empty pint.
My hands were raw from the soapy dishwater, and my back burned with a dull, steady ache, but I refused to sit down. I kept polishing the taps, wiping the same spot on the copper until it practically mirrored the yellow overhead lights. I was running on nothing but nervous energy and the memory of Jake’s text message.
I’ll see you tonight.
Just as the clock on the wall chimed a quiet half-hour, the heavy double doors of the clubhouse swung open.
My heart did a violent, familiar kick against my ribs.
