Chapter 1: Two A.M. Confessions
Despite the time, the halo of light around NeonGrit never fades. Storms come and go, fog rolls in, final death rattles echo from alleys I’ve learned to avoid, but the paved streets don’t crack deep enough for pavement to be stolen and the Black Wire never dims.
I sigh as I see the signage. Even though it’s two a.m., I need a place of peace, a small Eden among a hellish city that sees more than it should. My feet pick up their pace, not because of the slurred ‘hey bay-be’ being whistled from a shadow area that only serves to snuff light and lives, but because I’m afraid if I don’t slip through the front door in time, I’ll cry.
A doll can never cry openly. It’s one of the emotions we stuff down unless a client begs for it. That’s beyond me. It’s not a service I offer. If they want to satiate themselves on tears and blood, they can find River and scrape together their savings to pay for the pleasure of real emotion.
My eyes blur as I open the door to the Black Wire and I push it shut behind me as if that will keep the ghosts of my disappointment, stress, and confusion at bay. I collect myself as I inhale the familiar mix of alcohol and incense, as my steps soften on the carpet leading to the bar, as the calming music strokes my skin as if soothing me from the sharpness of things too real to admit to.
Rather than sitting at the bar, I put myself in a corner table where the red light of the shop only brushes half my body. Exhaling a few times, I run my fingers through my hair. Why is Liam changing on me?
He knows better. He’s no stupid man who sees life through rose tinted glasses. He’s a man of this city. He serves this city. He knows what a doll does, he knows I don’t need someone to pull me out of beds and from under clients. I chose this, I even chose him, and now he’s trying a new kind of role play I never agreed to.
A savior isn’t what I need. I need him as he is, someone who ignores the obvious in favor of the sanctuary of shared moments, of emotions we feel but don’t say, and the understanding that the hours we get are too precious to waste with the thought of ‘what if’. And his confession, his desperate plea is a needle that has popped the haze of lust and comfort we existed in.
Now it’s all spilling out.
Chapter 2: The Gin Sour Dilemma
“Your usual,” Rowan says, waving away another bartender who’s come to take my order. He slides me the glass and sits across from me while taking care of business on his phone. The reflection in his glasses proves he’s handling things in a language I don’t know, but it’s better that way.
Distance is better. As long as there’s distance, people can’t collide and hurt each other.
“Asami,” he finally says. “Is there something wrong at the bar?”
“The seat is a bit unlevel,” I answer. “And the reminders make it worse.”
He nods once, then sets his phone on the table. He cleans his glasses, but his dark eyes flick to me as I drink the water in gulps. It’s like I need to replace the tears I didn’t cry, as if I have to reset my body.
“I need something more … flavorful than this tonight,” I whisper.
“Do you?”
It’s an innocent question from anyone but Rowan. He sees so much, hears everything and yet never shares. He’s a locked box of information, providing dolls a safe place to simply… exist.. No pretense beyond the ones we choose, no reason to believe we can’t empty our soul as we empty glasses.
Rowan raises his hand, holding up four fingers and suddenly a gin sour sits in front of me. It was the first drink I ordered here. I almost laugh, but bite my bottom lip. I trace the rim, wet my finger, then do it again until a light, high pitched note sings for me. Sighing, I stroke down the glass to the stem.
“Why do you always wear black?” I ask finally.
“You know why,” he says simply.
I do, but I’m desperate for a conversation that doesn’t matter. One that’s easy rather than loaded with things unsaid. Loaded and pressed to my head with expectations that I can’t fill, promises I can’t make.
So I take a drink of the alcohol and shake my head as I swallow. Rowan’s lips lift. “You hate gin.”
“With a passion,” I agree. “I don’t know why I ever ordered it that first time.”
“The unwelcome taste helps people swallow what they don’t want to say,” he answers before setting his round glasses back on his face. He rests his elbows on the table and meets my gaze. “So do you want to forget tonight,” he motions to the gin, then to the water, “or empty yourself of the weight.”
I suck my bottom lip and feel Rowan’s gaze on my mouth. I put both my hands out, my pinkies brushing both sweating glasses as I look between them. “One then the other.”
Chapter 3: Spill the Gin, Not the Secrets
“Freya,” he whispers.
My eyes flick up to his and I gulp the water again and again until I feel waterlogged and wavy. My eyes dart around the bar quickly and I notice only two other dolls at the far end of the bar, deep in conversation.
My shoulders drop a bit.
“You see too much to say so little,” I finally say as I move the gin glass in front of me, playing with it between my fingers. “So I’m sure you know exactly what I want to say.”
“To a degree,” he hedges.
I swallow more gin and feel my nose wrinkle. “Then what’s the point of saying it?”
“In my experience,” he says, his voice a constant, reassuring promise of safety, “Things need to be said so they don’t take up space in your head. It’s easier to say them and let them go.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“I imagine it’s the same as drinking,” he says. When our eyes meet, the corner of his mouth lifts. “Or being a doll.”
I don’t reply, just continue to watch him.
“It’s easier to pour a drink into a glass than into someone’s mouth. It’s easier to be a doll in familiar, safe spaces where you don’t have to plan for surprises than on the street,” he explains. It makes sense. I can’t deny that.
Nodding once, I rub the rim of the glass over my bottom lip, watching my lipstick smear with satisfaction. When I glance up, Rowan’s eyes are on the lipstick stain as well. His brow furrows slightly and his hand inches forward on the table to claim a napkin. He offers it to me. When I take it, our fingers brush, and I feel his tranquility seep into me.
“It’s all about emptying and refilling. So pour your thoughts into me knowing that I’ll vent them to my showerhead and watch them roll down the drain,” he advises.
“What… ” I don’t do this. I tell Rowan about my stress when we talk. I ask him questions we both already know the answers to. I like the routine. I don’t ask for advice or vent like some of the others do. I haven’t since a month after I started coming here, and I noticed how in tune he is with everyone. “What do you get out of people venting to you? Talking at you without telling them what to fix?”
He chuckles. “I provide the alcohol, they provide the stories. The money keeps my bar full, the stories keep me entertained.”
“Doesn’t seem fair that no one listens to you.”
Rowan doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t answer a lot of things unless they’re phrased as a question. River tells me that Rowan sees everything. He knows when people break the unspoken rules of Black Wire by bringing in weapons. He can spot a doll no matter what she’s wearing, whether she’s working, or if she’s changed her eyes. He knows most people’s secrets before the person knows it themselves.
And he doesn’t do it by shoving himself into situations; he does it by listening, watching, paying attention rather than playing an active role. I wipe my lipstick from the glass. “Do you think I’m a sloppy doll?”
“No,” he answers immediately. “Do you?”
“I think Liam is making me sloppy,” I admit. “Liam Maddox. I’m sure you know plenty about him, but nothing you’ll share. I won’t share that stuff either.”
My brow furrows, but Rowan gently nudges my hand towards the drink, his pointer finger moving over mine in a gentle agreement before he gets another drink ready for me. I sigh. “But he’s becoming a problem. I know he is. I know it so deeply that I haven’t answered the two messages he sent since I left him an hour ago. I shouldn’t have met with him. I should have held firm to what I said last week. I should have … I should have been smarter from the beginning and listened to River.”
“’Should’ is an ideal. You know better than to deal in things that aren’t real,” he replies.
“Should” is an ideal. You know better than to deal in things that aren’t real
Rowan Renrick
Chapter 4: A Sweet Drink for a Sour Truth
Another drink appears next to me, but the pink isn’t what I expect. I stare at it for a long moment before looking at him. He arches an eyebrow. He wants me to try it, to taste the unknown or something. But I like consistency, even if it’s predictably bad. So I take another drink of gin.
He nods once. “It’s tequila, hibiscus, and grenadine. Sweet.”
My hand starts to drift towards it. I huff. “What do you think of Liam?”
“I think of him very little unless I’m serving him. He’s an easy patron. He tends to drink what you drink, no matter what you order him. I save time preparing accordingly,” he comments.
Giving him a look earns me more silence because Rowan, as maddening as it is, will never tell me what to do. I’ve asked him to. Asked him to make decisions for me and he offered to flip a coin instead. It’s frustrating and liberating at the same time.
“Fine. What does it say about someone if they tell a doll that she doesn’t have to be a doll? What does it say about them that they line up the dictionary definition of ownership and swear it’s not – that it’s salvation? What does it say that they have never complained about a girl being a doll until drunk and desperate and then they offer to take care of her and her mother and say she couldn’t have possibly chosen the life of a doll?” I don’t think I’ve ever said that much in one breath.
I’m not sure the last half of it was even audible. But once it’s out, I down the remaining gin, dousing my tastebuds in something disgusting until I can believe that my tongue won’t remember my question.
“And what does it say that after all that, the doll says no, the doll says they need time apart, just to meet with that same man again?” I move the empty glass away and soften the disgust – with the drink and myself – in the swirling pink of tequila. “Is this pearl dust?”
“Yes,” Rowan says. “I’ve been considering using edible glitter and shimmer powder in some drinks. Some women have said they’ve seen drinks like this in Shadow Haven and the core.”
“If you could make it glow, that would be beautiful,” I hum. “Like drinking neon lights.”
His silence lingers between us, but I don’t need it to be filled. I’m not afraid of Rowan’s opinion, but I don’t need it either. There’s no demand in my words, nothing he could say that I don’t already know, that I haven’t already considered, but he taps the table twice and snacks appear.
“I’d say to eat,” he finally answers. “Eat, drink a bit more so your emotions can leave with the words. It will make you lighter.”
“Until morning,” I whisper.
“You’d be surprised what a hangover can erase,” he snorts.
But when our eyes meet, there’s something warm in his gaze, a promise of respite after the chaos of Liam.
Liam didn’t rehash ‘saving’ me, but he called me angel and fucked me with his forehead against mine, but the tension was there. Every touch was too gentle, like an unspoken apology and once we finished, he just kept stroking my jaw. Him pretending like he didn’t surprise me with too many emotions and dangerous propositions made me feel worse.
He called me angel and fucked me with his forehead against mine.
Asami Freya
Every touch was too gentle, like an unspoken apology and once we finished, he just kept stroking my jaw. Him pretending like he didn’t surprise me with too many emotions and dangerous propositions made me feel worse.
I’d told him that it couldn’t happen again. He told me that he’d learn better ways to prove himself. I’d told him I was happy with my life and he agreed I’d done well for myself and ambition could be a trap. All while watching me with too-soft eyes and desires that don’t have a place in a room with a doll.
“Release the memories, don’t fall into them. Memories are just like that pearly dust. Keep visiting them and they’ll keep swirling. Let them settle and they sink to the bottom.”
“So you can filter them out?” I ask, disbelievingly.
He looks at the drink as if he’s not sure. “You can dump the drink on the table and spare yourself the weight of the dust.”
I laugh and see him smile. I laugh again, then push my bangs away from my face. I shake my head. “I don’t need to be saved, Rowan. I don’t need some man who’s carved from the Core to take me away from the life I’ve made for myself. Even meeting with him after he said things like that makes me feel like less than … less than …” I shake my head and give up.
Rowan sighs and moves closer. “You are who you choose to be. Whether it’s Freya. Whether it’s Asami. Whether you’re a doll, you are still a person and you choose, like I did, like everyone does.”
Chapter 5: A Drink That Sees Too Much
I take another drink of the pink liquid and feel myself float a little. I’m tempted to believe that Rowan slipped something else into my drink, but I know better. He’d never make a choice for someone else.
“Do you judge people later for the things they say?” I ask as I pop a snack into my mouth.
“Rowan!” Someone calls from the bar.
He looks up and slides out of his chair, but his fingertips skim my arm. He meets my eyes. “No one judges a person more than that person judges themselves.”
He leaves me to think about that while I play with the glass between my hands.
Without Rowan, I’d feel as lost as the little pieces of pearly dust in my glass. They swirl and swirl without settling, circling the glass never to achieve anything more than being pretty. Maybe that’s what Liam thinks of me.
Perhaps he thinks I’m circling and circling in some kind of illusion of productivity. He should know better. I like what I do. I like being a comfort in a world that doesn’t offer many opportunities for kindness. I want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, to let them be who they want to be, even if I’m the only one watching.
There’s a woman who comes to me, just to sit without makeup and say horrible things about her husband while knowing I won’t hurt her. I’ll agree with her, listen, massage and pamper her, let her smoke, let her watch trash T.V. all while encouraging her to eat more, to drink more, to enjoy herself.
There’s power in giving people what they need and maybe Liam feels powerless and craves control with me. Maybe he needs to own something because he doesn’t feel like he owns himself. He’s said that to me – not outright, never outright, but across conversations – and I’ve seen it when he has to preen and prepare for meetings. He hates doing it, but grits his teeth and follows through because he is serving someone else.
Maybe he thinks if he owns me, he’ll be able to own himself. He’s wrong, though. I’m an equal. He deals with partners in business and so do I. There’s compromise in our lives, we accept how people perceive us despite the differences in consequences for us. We are different sides of the same coin.
I sip and snack in silence, letting my thoughts settle deeper and deeper, whispering to the alcohol as if that is as good as talking to Rowan. It’s not. It could never be.
Rowan Renrick is unique. Whether he judges, answers, soothes, or simply watches, knowing he’s listening matters. Knowing that I can empty all my thoughts to someone without worrying about my money or my life helps my shoulders drop.
Chapter 6: What a Bartender Sees
“I’m not going to fix anything, Freya,” Rowan says as he appears at my side again. I look up at him, my lips slightly parted as he gives me another pink drink. There’s no pearl dust this time. “You don’t need someone to fix things. Everyone assumes they do, that they can’t handle the problem, but the truth is it’s rare that someone else getting involved will improve anything.”
“I suppose,” I answer.
“You don’t need to be saved. You don’t need a situation fixed. You don’t need to drink. You need balance above all, just like Black Wire does, just like Danger City does, like the cosmos themselves do,” he continues.
His voice is so warm. Liam might be able to charm, but Rowan has this natural ability to spread peace. It’s in every softened word that leaves his lips, in the cadence of his speech. Listening to him is like falling into bed to sleep and being greeted with a lullaby that makes the rest of the world disappear.
“Keep talking?” I request.
He smiles knowingly. “You’re a capable woman. If you believe you need to untangle yourself from… him, then I suggest doing it with finesse, but if any part of you wants to hold onto him, you’ll only knot yourself tighter.”
Which is terrible because some part of me likes his worship. Some part of me likes the haven of solace and intimacy we carve when we’re together. Liam’s unique like that. He has an edge that makes me sure he’s real, but he’s deeper than the oceans I’ve heard of, deeper than the layers of lies and bloodshed in the Core and whether it’s good for me or not, I want to be his warmth. I want his real smile and I want his gentle touches.
Maybe it’s because it’s so achingly real that it’s a threat. It’s a threat I can survive and makes me feel stronger after every interaction. As if my compassion and empathy are pieces of armor rather than glowing weak spots.
I bite my bottom lip hard to drag me from my thoughts. When I look up at Rowan, I see him in the warmth of the light on the table. His back is in shadows, the reflection of the light on his glasses make his eyes disappear.
“You’re the reason the Black Wire is nicer than homes for us,” I whisper.
He shifts, so I can see his eyes and they linger on my face. I swallow. “I know that’s probably out of line to say, but you shouldn’t just hear the things people think are secrets. You should hear the truth too. Black Wire is special and safe and warm because of you.”
His eyes soften and his hand moves until I’m sure he’s going to touch me, but he doesn’t. “I’m happy to be a part of the ambiance.”
I snort. “You’re well aware you’re more than that. To us dolls and all your other patrons.”
A ghost of a smile teases his lips, then he nods once. “Thank you for saying so.”
“We love this place. You may be the only shop that’s never broken into,” I tease. “Imagine a burglar being beaten up by dolls, laborers, and the black market elite.”
Again, he smiles slightly, only for it to vanish when someone comes in. His eyes harden slightly. “I advise you allow distance for yourself.”
“From?” I ask. “For.”
“A decision with weight to be made,” he answers before walking to the bar, his fingers tightening into a fist as he goes.
Rowan’s calm is rarely broken, but that hint of knuckles, the fist at his side that tightens until I can see his raised veins only to soften into nothing. Just like that, Rowan is the stable, reliable Rowan I’ve come to know. A potential smile on his lips.
Chapter 7: Whiskey and What Comes After
Liam drops in across from me, looks at my drink and turns. “Bartender, two more please.”
Rowan looks to me and when I give a shallow nod, he gets to work. Liam watches me, his green eyes thawing the longer he looks. He extends his hand over the table, his palm up. It’s an offer.
“Three hours is below our minimum,” he says.
“And we don’t avoid things,” I counter. “Not very honest and open.”
“I’m starting to think there might be a possibility for people to be too honest,” Liam says with a guilty smile. “Especially after six glasses of whiskey and the stress from a life one of us doesn’t want.”
“One of us,” I agree.
He’s quiet a moment, eyeing me as if deciding whether I want to drink with him or not. I play with my own drink. It’s a longer than necessary gulp, especially when I know how tequila makes things spin, makes the lights grow brighter, and has my smile as natural and effortless as if there isn’t a price tag hanging from all my interactions.
“Either you trust me more than you’re willing to let on or I’ve driven you to drink,” Liam comments.
“Perhaps we need to have a conversation where touching or intimacy is off the table,” I whisper.
“Talking with you is intimate to me,” he answers.
The weight of his gaze feels … good, like his weight on top of me. I want to sink into that look in his eyes, the genuine heat that rolls off him. Before I realize what I’m doing, my fingertips tease his.
“Your drinks,” Rowan says, just before Liam can claim my hand.
I glance at him and his eyes flick from my hand to the drink. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Inclining my head once, Rowan’s eyes linger a second longer, then he gives a polite smile before walking to the bar. Liam hums. “Interesting. I have pearl dust here.”
I glance at his drink, then mine. He has pearl dust and I don’t. While Liam inspects his drink curiously, my gaze slips back to Rowan. Nothing he does is meaningless. He’s inescapably intentional, but that doesn’t mean that I understand.
He doesn’t look at me, only the counter he’s wiping down. He’s the owner of the bar, so why is he doing tasks like this? He could sit back like so many other business owners, stay in the back unless needed. Instead, Rowan watches. He listens. He supplements his income with secrets and gossip. Rowan might call it entertainment, but I can’t imagine that he forgets what he learns, that he ignores the games that are so often at play.
What does he know that I don’t? About Liam, about other patrons? Can he feel the tension between Liam and I? Can he feel it between various people in the bar constantly? Does he have notebooks filled with the secrets emptied and refilled in here?
“Asami?” Liam asks. “Is something wrong?”
“No, just filled with thoughts and liquor,” I say lightly before taking a drink from my glass. I’m not sure if I’m seeing what I want to see, but I swear I see Rowan smile.
“If … if I’m willing to address my apparently incorrect thinking, can we move forward?” Liam presses.
My tongue brushes over my bottom lip. “I don’t know, Liam. You don’t even want to … to admit your real goal.”
“I do want to own you,” he finally says. “I … I can admit it. There’s a part of me that wants to claim every smile and package you up for myself. To have every smile, every bit of sweetness, to be on the receiving end of your laugh and kindness, to know all your secrets.”
My eyes widen and I nearly drop my glass.
“But that wouldn’t be you, would it?” he asks, smiling sadly. “If I put you in a penthouse and gave you nothing to do, you wouldn’t be yourself. So even if I loathe the idea of you being with other men. Even if the idea of someone hurting you makes me physically ill … I’ll accept it.”
“Why?” I ask, taking another sip.
“Call me addicted or hopeless or eager for your brand of sweetness. I’d rather have you under your terms than not at all,” he answers.
Chapter 8: What’s Left in the Glass
Everything in me wants to look at Rowan. I want to see if he’s paying attention, want to know if he’s seeing something I’m not, but that would be a mistake. Liam’s trying a different brand of honesty. It borders on too much, but at the same time… he’s accepting me as a doll, as a person.
It’s stupid, I’m judging myself times ten and Rowan’s words come back to me. No one is going to judge me more than I will myself. That’s probably a good thing considering if anyone could judge me more, they’d kill me with their thoughts.
“I need you to understand I chose this life. I choose it every day and I’ve had people before who have offered to take me away from it. It is mine. I’m protective of it. I like your consistency, I said that. So if you’re that drunk …” I trail off.
“I won’t text,” Liam says.
I continue watching him, wondering if I can harness a bit of Rowan’s power. Can I make Liam talk more than I do? Can I encourage him to speak with my silence? My hand inches closer to Liam’s, stroking over his fingers as I sip.
“I won’t ask to kiss you. I’ll settle for drinking what you do and fantasizing what your mouth tastes like. I’ll find something pleasant in restraint. Who knows. It might be a new kink,” Liam jokes.
Despite how much I want to be serious, I grin, then roll my eyes. “You’re … relentless.”
“I prefer persistent.”
“And I prefer us like this. Talking, enjoying each other, finding peace together,” I sigh. “Can we have that and enjoy it?”
“Teach me,” he dares before taking a long drink. “I don’t taste the pearl dust.”
“Because Rowan does things right,” I answer. “What do you think of the drink?”
I get Liam talking and keep him talking even when my eyes flick to Rowan. He’s a safety leash. Wherever Rowan is, safety settles in his wake. It’s why Black Wire works. It’s why dolls come here. He won’t charge us, won’t judge us, won’t get involved. He makes silence a balm compared to the rest of the world and if I could be more like anyone, I would want to be more like him.
His confidence, the way people trust him, respect him, the relaxation he inspires is all … wonderful.
“I’ll pay you for four hours tonight anyway,” Liam informs.
“No, you’ll pay me for three,” I argue.
He smirks. “Say it again.”
“No, Liam,” I say.
His hand moves under mine and he lifts my hand, kissing my knuckles to quiet his moan. “I love that you say no to me.”
“You are a glutton for punishment.”
“I’m a glutton for you. When we’re together, tell me no, be real. Above everything else, that’s what I want, that’s what I enjoy about us,” Liam insists before he laces our fingers together. “In a city that punishes a realistic view on things, we are honest and say what we want with each other. No punishment, just conversation like this.”
My answering smile makes Liam’s eyes burn with joy. Rowan was right about one thing – I’m tangled up in Liam whether I want to be or not. And for some reason, his joy feeds mine, his genuine nature fulfills me in a way I can’t explain and untangling myself will never do anything but tighten the complicated knot between us.
Rowan is right. Rowan will always be right.
