Page 2 of Unspoken

My retort hangs unfinished, a word of affection cut short by the sudden roar that tears through the calm of the parking.

Flames erupt from the car with feral speed, engulfing it in a hungry inferno. Scorching heat lashes at my face while I'mrooted to the spot, watching in horror as the world around me transforms into a surreal painting. The colors are too bright, the sounds too sharp. The stench of burning rubber and fuel hits me like a punch to the gut. Still, I am frozen in place, terror clawing its way up my throat.

And then it hits me.

Alfie!

Oh no, please no!

Somewhere in those flames is my best mate.

CHAPTER 1

LOGAN

I'm settled on a cracked leather stool, the weak light in this dive bar barely enough to make out the label on the bottle in my hand. It's the kind of place that reeks of desperation, stale dreams, and underhanded transactions. The kind of place where the paint peels like sunburnt skin and the jukebox croons forgotten hits from a bygone era. The kind of place people who fall from grace—yours truly included—visit to obtain information from those who won’t do it in broad daylight because they are operating between the lawful and the unlawful.

The bottle sweats in my grip, cold and indifferent to my thoughts and emotions.

A card—cream with embossed gold lettering—feels alien against the lining of my coat. I fish it out and study it—an invitation to a dance with ghosts from my past. Fifteen years. I trace the raised print, a tactile reminder of what I've lost. Class of so and so. A hollow soundless chuckle escapes me.

Most of them probably have their own families now. And are successful. I heard Theo Bennett moved to LA to pursue his acting career. He even scored some TV roles. Miranda is a literature teacher in Henderson. She married Xander Clarke, who was in pro football for a while until his knee injury. He’sa coach now at some university. River Skyes went to Latin America for humanitarian work. And of course, there’s Connie. She’s a mom now, something she always wanted to be. Too bad she’s married to Curtis. But that’s on me. I introduced them.

I wonder what would all these decent people think of their fellow grad becoming a muscle for hire?

The bitterness coils in my gut, a living thing. I was one of them once—a badge, a sense of purpose, until that bust five years ago. Curtis's face flashes before me, his pleading eyes. Asshole.

I shove the memory away.

Anyway, attending makes no sense.

Just as I’m about to ask the bartender for another beer, I see the door swinging open. Frankie Loose Hands makes his entrance. Despite the poor lighting, he spots me immediately and prances over in his characteristically flamboyant way, all street swagger.

I put the card back into hiding and shift my focus to the meeting.

"Logan, my man." Frankie greets me with a toothy grin and drops onto the stool beside me.

"Frankie." My tone is polite, but clipped and wary. People like him are dangerous. He got his name for a reason. "How are you?"

"Can’t complain. You?"

"Same." I don’t want to waste my time on pleasantries and get right down to business. "So, what's the occasion? Why you wanted to see me?"

Frankie wouldn’t have reached out unless he had some good intel lined up. And as much as I don’t like the slimy bastard, his knack for obtaining solid information is invaluable.

His eyes dart around the bar before he leans in. "Heard you might be looking for work again."

"Maybe," I say, noncommittal. There are whispers about Frankie that he’s a snitch playing both sides. But when your options are limited, you don't ask too many questions.

"I know someone’ll snatch you up in a heartbeat. You’re a fucking legend, man," Frankie goes on, waving at the bartender.

"You know, with me, flattery won’t get you far."

"Yeah." Frankie nods.

Two beers appear in front of us. He grabs one and takes a swig.

"Come on. I don’t have all day," I urge him.

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