Page 115 of Heart Over Heels

Underfoot, the concrete was cracked with stubborn weeds pushing through. Creeping over them, I hesitated at the corner of the enclosure and glanced through one of the narrow air gaps in the wall. There wasn’t much to see, just shapes, shadows, and a spill of yellow from the light above the battered back door.

It looked clear, so I moved forward into the opening, only to be assaulted by the stench of the dumpsters. The smells of beer, bleach, and baked trash were joined by a waft of cigarette smoke. It was fresh and made a trail past the bins to the slim figure positioned against the building.

Elliot stood outside the beam of the overhead light, leaning with one leg drawn up and his heel hooked on a missing patch of brick. He wore a baggy black hoodie over shiny green pants, layered up despite the oppressive heat. His cigarette flared as he lifted it to his mouth and took a drag.

“Thought I heard someone coming,” he muttered, voice low and rough from smoke. His gaze dropped to the toolkit in my hand, then lifted again. “You breaking in, soldier boy?”

My mouth went dry. I hadn’t considered a cover story. “Maintenance,” I said.

Elliot scoffed and tipped his head toward the blue box behind me, the one loaded with what must have been the majority of the club’s contents. “Little late, don’t you think?” he asked.

I grimaced and hugged my toolkit closer. “I wanted to stay. I asked Darby?—”

“Save it.” He flicked his hand like he was batting away a fly. “I don’t give a shit.”

I nodded, understanding, but still felt compelled to say, “I’m sorry.”

The apology earned me another snort.

I glanced at the door beside him, propped open with a chunk of concrete. The club’s music rumbled through the gap as Elliot took another drag. Smoke curled around his face and along the curves of his horns as he tapped the cigarette with a black-painted nail, scattering ash across the concrete.

I gestured to it. “What happened to the vape?”

His lips pursed. “I’m not exactly a bubblegum guy.”

“What about Sticky Bunz?”

He huffed what might have been a laugh before taking one last pull from the cigarette. Dropping the spent butt, he ground it out under his boot then folded his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here, man?” His eyes found me again, narrow and faintly aglow. “Really.”

His tone wasn’t hostile, just tired. Like he’d run out of patience for everyone else’s bullshit but cared just enough to call me on mine.

I had no answer except the truth. But truth had gotten me into Darby’s good graces in the first place. That was how we’d connected. When I’d lied—or kept quiet—was when things fell apart.

“I think the club’s in trouble.”

Elliot let out a more genuine laugh. “Do you, now?” He tilted his head. “Areyouthe trouble?”

“I was,” I admitted. “I didn’t mean to be. But I think the angels are planning something. Antonella called it retribution for the sinners?—”

“Fuck. No.” He shook his head. “I told you, I don’t give a shit.”

I blinked at him, thrown. “You asked?”

“Not about that holy cunt, I didn’t,” he retorted. “I asked aboutyou.What doyouwant?”

I looked at the cracked door he guarded and said quietly, “I want… I need to talk to Darby.”

“Mmm.” Elliot’s mouth quirked. “Beck at least brought flowers when he came crawling.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head then jerked his thumb toward the front of the building. “If you want in, why not wait in line like everyone else?”

“Pretty sure I’m banned.”

Silence chased my statement, and I tried to think of something to add that wasn’t another apology or excuse. Neither of those had moved him; I wasn’t sure what would.