Page 40 of Shades of Silver City

I clear my throat. “Thanks for covering for me last night, too.”

She fills the coffee maker with water, snapping the lid shut and flicking the machine on. It rumbles to a start, popping and snapping as the water heats up.

“I’m not gonna ask, but at least tell me you’re being safe—that you’re not up to some bullshit.” She plants a hand on her hip, piercing me with a motherly gaze. I grin at her sass. She’s only a couple of years older than me, but having Axel and going through the messy relationship with Jeremiah has certainly matured her beyond her years. “I mean it, TayTay.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, to inform her that I’m not up to anything, but she raises a hand, successfully silencing me from across the room. Still gripping my bear, I stroll over to the bar and plop on a stool in front of her.

“I’m safe,” I assure her.

The lie rings out in the air between us, but based on the way Mellie grabs two mugs for our coffee while humming under her breath, I don’t think she picked up on it.

When it comes down to it, am I truly safe? I’m lost, a bit unhappy, and wholly over my life in many ways. I don’t think I’ve ever truly been safe.

I simply exist, slowly creeping toward my demise.

Mellie pours our coffee. She adds a heap of sugar and cream to one mug, then slides the other mug of straight black coffee across the polished bar to me. I grip the ceramic handle, raising the mug in thanks.

“Drink up and get out of my bar, girl.” She grips her coffee cup and peers at me. “Respectfully.”

“Sure.” I blow on my coffee, eagerly waiting for it to cool enough to chug. My throat still aches, but the heat might help.

“You been painting?” she asks.

I give her a confused look. “Hm?”

“Your fingers.” She points at my mug, and I follow her line of sight, noticing the dark stains on my fingertips and nails.

I bite my lip. “A little. Yeah.”

Though I did wash my hands, I was so disoriented last night that I didn’t take the time to properly scrub them. Oil pastels can be a bitch to get off skin. They’re messy and greasy. But that’s also part of why I like them so much. My art and I leave marks on each other, a reciprocal exchange.

My eyes wander to the Wanted poster on the bulletin board behind the bar, where Archer’s semi-accurate face stares back at me. Mellie turns, presumably to follow my gaze.

“Five thousand silvers.” She exhales audibly, turning back to me as she shakes her head. “Could you imagine?”

“You’d turn him in?” I trace the handle of my mug, avoiding her eyes.

“In a heartbeat.”

I blow on my coffee harder, trying to hide my frown. “What if he wasn’t guilty?”

“Not my problem.” She chuckles. “You know what I could do with that money?” When I don’t reply, she continues. “He’s for sure guilty though. Those Nightcrawlers are the cancer of our city…”

I zone out as she continues to rant about their involvement in the city’s crime world. A sickening sludge works its way through my gut. I definitely can’t open up to Mellie about meeting Archer. About his proposition.

“You with me?” She waves a hand in my direction. “Well…whatever.” She sips her coffee before deciding the temperature is acceptable and taking a bigger gulp. “You’re worrying the shit out of me.”

I stifle a chuckle, running a hand through my knotted hair. The strands are thin and damaged—bleached to hell and back. “It’s just…boyfriend and roommate drama.”

She grunts, going through the motions of preparing the bar for its ten o’clock opening: grabbing a box of limes and lemons, locating the cutting board and knife, scrubbing her hands, and slipping some latex gloves on.

“I never did like Reed,” she mutters under her breath. “He’s immature as hell. You deserve better.”

“I’ve known him since we were twelve, Mel.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole.”

“He has a lot of good qualities.”

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