Before reading, I just want to let all readers know that :-
- This book is Self-Published. (Book may include grammar mistakes, etc.)
- This book contains very disturbing situations, explicit sexual themes, dubious content, violence and strong language.
- All Rights Reserved
Other than that, enjoy reading!
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Chapter 1
The rain hadn't stopped all day. Not a downpour, just that steady, cold drizzle that worked its way under clothes and stayed there. It coated the cracked pavement of Briarwick's East Quarter, filling the low spots with shallow puddles that reflected the street-lights overhead. The lamps buzzed and flickered in the mist, their light dull and broken. In the distance, a siren wailed once and cut off, leaving the streets quiet again.
Grayson Hale should've gone home hours ago. He sat hunched over the bar counter, one hand wrapped loosely around a short glass of whiskey that had been refilled twice too many times. The smell of cheap bourbon clung to him like a second skin, along with the faint trace of smoke and the grease from the fryer in the back. His jacket hung on the stool beside him, threadbare, the lining starting to tear near the cuffs, but it was all he had left that still made him look like he gave a damn. He didn't, not tonight.
The day had been a slow collapse. Fired. No warning, no severance, not even the decency of a fake smile from the manager he'd worked alongside for three years. "Cutbacks," they'd called it. Grayson knew what it really was — a favour to the boss's nephew who needed a job. Now he was here, in the dim amber glow of The Rusted Anchor, drowning the bitter taste in the back of his throat.
"You look like a man who could use a little company."
Her voice broke through the low hum of the bar. Grayson didn't have to look to know she was trouble. You could hear it in the syrupy lilt, the calculated sweetness. He glanced anyway — dark hair that caught the light in waves, red lipstick smudged just enough to make him think it had been on for hours.
She leaned on the bar, nails clicking softly against the wood. "Name's Lila."
He nodded once, non-committal, and went back to his drink.
"You always this friendly?" She teased, tilting her head.
Grayson's lips quirked, the barest ghost of a smile. "Only to people I'm interested in."
Her eyes narrowed — playful at first, then assessing. "Not your type?"
"No," he said simply. He didn't bother softening it.
But Lila was persistent. She slid onto the stool beside him, her perfume curling through the air — expensive, floral, a sharp contrast to the beer-and-fry stench that usually owned this place. "Maybe you don't know your type."
Grayson took another slow sip, let the burn settle in his chest, and finally looked at her properly. She was pretty, sure. But there was an edge there, not the kind that made you curious, the kind that made you careful.
"Sweetheart," he said, voice low, "if I wanted to spend the night with a woman, I wouldn't be sitting here wishing everyone would leave me alone."
The flash in her eyes was instant — hurt flickering into something colder. She straightened, the smile wiped clean. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah," he murmured into his glass. "I've heard that before."
Lila slid off the stool and stalked away, heels clicking against the floorboards. The bartender gave him a look, but Grayson ignored it. Peace didn't last, though.
Ten minutes later, he decided to leave. The whiskey had done what it could, and he wasn't about to keep dancing with the ghosts in his head. He pulled his jacket on, shoved a crumpled bill under his empty glass, and stepped into the night.
The air was colder now, the rain tapering off to a fine mist. The street outside was nearly empty, just the hum of the neon bar sign behind him, casting its red glow over the wet pavement. He lit a cigarette as he walked, letting the first drag settle deep in his lungs. The night was quiet for this part of Briarwick. Too quiet. He turned left, heading toward the cracked alley that cut through to his street.
"You made a mistake in there, pretty boy."
The voice came from the right, it was low, gravel-edged, thick with something colder than anger.
Grayson slowed, his steps measured, and turned just enough to see him.
The man stepped out of the alley's mouth like he owned the shadows, his broad shoulders filling the narrow space between the brick walls. Rain slicked over a black leather jacket, dripping from the curve of tattoos that crawled up his jaw to his forehead. His gaze locked onto Grayson's and didn't move, almost like a predator assessing the distance before the kill.
"You were talking to my sister." The man said, voice still low but edged with steel.
"She started the conversation." Grayson replied, his tone smooth but carrying no apology.
"She also said you were an asshole."
He gave a slow shrug, the faintest curl of a smile touching his mouth. "She's not wrong."
The man's grin faltered, amusement curdling into something harder, meaner. His eyes narrowed to slits. "You think you can talk to her like that and just walk away?"
Grayson exhaled smoke without looking at him, flicking ash into the gutter. "That's the plan."
He barely made it two steps before a fist knotted into the back of his jacket and yanked. Hard. The collar bit into his throat, choking off his next breath.
"Wrong plan," the man said, his voice calm in the way only dangerous men managed — that conversational tone that told you they weren't bluffing.
Grayson's pulse kicked up, but his stance stayed loose, measured. He'd been in enough back-alley dust-ups to know when someone was just puffing their chest and when someone meant to spill blood. This guy? He wasn't looking for an argument. He was looking for damage.
"Let go," Grayson warned, his voice low, steady.
The man didn't. He shoved him instead, a violent jolt that sent Grayson stumbling on the rain-slick street. His boots screeched against the wet asphalt, barely catching traction before the man closed in again.
The first punch slammed into Grayson's shoulder like a hammer, pain detonating down his arm and into his ribs. The second came fast for his jaw, he ducked, felt the gust of it skim his cheek, the scent of leather and cigarette smoke filling his nose.
"You're making a mistake," Grayson warned, his tone flat, dangerous.
The man's lips curled back, showing teeth. "The only mistake here is thinking you're walking away with all your teeth."
He lunged again, hands grabbing for Grayson's shirt, knuckles grinding into his collarbone. The heat of adrenaline hit Grayson like a fuse catching, a sharp, electric rush that emptied his head of everything except the man in front of him. His hands moved before thought caught up. Grayson shoved — not a push, but a full-bodied slam, both palms crashing into the man's chest with every ounce of force he had. The impact drove the man backward. Boots scraped, slipped. His heel caught the jagged lip of the curb. For a split second, his balance hung there, teetering. Then gravity took him. His skull hit the concrete with a sound that cut through the rain, a wet, hollow crack that seemed to echo in Grayson's teeth.
The man's body went slack instantly, one arm flung out at an awkward angle. Rain streaked across his face, making rivulets through the blood already spilling into the gutter. The pool spread quickly, black under the streetlamp, swirling into the shallow streams that ran toward the drain.
Grayson stood frozen, heart punching against his ribs. The street seemed unnaturally quiet, every drop of rain amplified in his ears.
He crouched slowly, his hand hovering just above the man's throat, not touching — he didn't need to. The stillness was enough. The heavy, unmoving weight of a body that wasn't coming back.
"Shit…" The word was barely a whisper.
He straightened again, his breath ragged in his chest, the image already burning itself into the backs of his eyes. The smell of iron filled his nose, sharp and metallic, cutting through the rain.
Grayson's gaze swept the street. No one. No footsteps. He straightened slowly, pulling his jacket tight, and walked away without looking back.
The sound of that crack followed him all the way home.
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The Rusted Anchor was quiet now, stripped bare of noise and bodies. Only the neon lights buzzed in the window, bathing the empty stools in a dull red haze. Jack Marlowe sat alone behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey and the grainy glow of the CCTV monitor for company. The footage looped again — the door, the man stepping into the rain, and then the second figure peeling out of the alley. Jack watched the fight in jerky black-and-white frames, his gut tightening as the shove came. The wet sprawl onto the curb. The way the man didn't move afterward. Jack's gut twisted at the way the body stayed down. He dragged a hand down his face. He'd managed the place for eight years, long enough to know where this would lead. Long enough to know there were some things you couldn't just mop up and forget.
The phone sat in its cradle at the end of the bar, old enough that its cord curled like a noose. Jack stared at it for a long moment, his thumb twitching against the wood. Calling meant getting involved. Calling meant someone would remember his name tomorrow, and not in a way he wanted. But the Anchor wasn't his. It belonged to him. And Kane's people didn't like surprises.
Jack picked up the receiver. The number wasn't written anywhere, but his hands dialled it like they'd been doing it their whole life.
Two rings.
Three.
Then, a voice answered — deep, even, and carrying the kind of weight that made the skin prickle at the back of Jack's neck.
"Speak."
Jack swallowed. "It's Marlowe. We've got a problem."
"Where?"
"The Rusted Anchor."
A pause.
Then, "How bad?"
Jack's eyes flicked to the frozen image on the monitor — the sprawled body, the pool of rainwater black with something thicker. He sighed. "The kind that won't get up again."
"Who?"
"Don't know him." Jack hesitated. "Never seen him before tonight."
Silence stretched on the other end, long enough for Jack to hear faint music in the background, heavy bass pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
Finally, the voice spoke again. "Stay inside. Lock the doors. This is already being handled."
Jack's throat tightened. "He… doesn't need to come down here, does he?"
A faint huff of amusement. "No. If he shows up, it means the situation's worse than you're saying. And trust me, Marlowe… you don't want that."
Jack gripped the phone harder. "And the body?"
"It'll be gone before you open tomorrow. I don't need to remind you what happens if you run your mouth."
The line went dead.
Jack lowered the receiver, the silence in the room suddenly louder than before. He poured himself a double, neat, and turned off the monitor.
By morning, there'd be no sign of the man in the street. No blood. No questions. Just the kind of quiet that meant someone powerful had decided the matter was already closed.