Page 109 of Sinful
"I promise."
I need to make some calls.
The weight of what I'm about to do sits heavy in my chest as I walk outside, away from the clubhouse,finding a quiet spot near the fence where I can see the woods.
The same woods where Bravos and I?—
I shake the memory away. Focus.
Two calls. That's all it takes to dismantle three years of your life.
My hands shake as I dial the first number.
I call Jack—the man who gave me a job when I was desperate and running, who never asked questions, who let me hide behind my fake name and paid me cash under the table when I needed it.
He answers on the third ring, and I can hear the bar in the background—country music, someone laughing, the clink of glasses. "Hello?"
"Jack, it's me."
"Bailey?" He sounds confused for a second, then: "Oh, shit. When are you coming back? I'm too old for this shit."
"I know, and I’m so sorry. It’s been crazy here."
"I’m sure it has."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I'm sorry, really sorry."
"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't help me when I'm short-staffed on a Friday night." He sighs. "When are you coming back? I need to know if I should hire someone to replace you or if you're actually planning on showing up."
This is it. The moment I burn the bridge.
"I'm not coming back."
Silence.
Long, heavy silence that stretches until I almost think the call dropped.
"What?" he says finally.
"I'm not coming back. I quit."
"You're quitting. Just like that. After three years."
"Just like that."
More silence. "This about a guy?"
The question makes me bristle. "No. Maybe. It's complicated."
"It's always fucking complicated with you young people." But his voice has lost some of its edge. "Look, you were a decent bartender. Shit waitress—customers complained about your attitude—but good behind the bar. Fast, efficient, didn't steal from the register. I respected that."
"Thanks."
"But you're really leaving? Not coming back at all?"
"I'm really leaving. I'm sorry for not giving two weeks' notice. I know that's shitty. But I just—I can't come back to that life."
"That life," he says slowly, "paid your rent for three years. Kept you fed. Gave you work when you showed up looking like a drowned rat with nothing but a duffel bag and a bad attitude."
