Grace for Drowning Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue (Logan)

  Four Months Later

  Chapter 1 (Grace)

  Chapter 2 (Grace)

  Chapter 3 (Grace)

  Chapter 4 (Logan)

  Chapter 5 (Logan)

  Chapter 6 (Grace)

  Chapter 7 (Grace)

  Chapter 8 (Logan)

  Chapter 9 (Logan)

  Chapter 10 (Grace)

  Chapter 11 (Logan)

  Chapter 12 (Grace)

  Chapter 13 (Grace)

  Chapter 14 (Logan)

  Chapter 15 (Logan)

  Chapter 16 (Logan)

  Chapter 17 (Grace)

  Chapter 18 (Grace)

  Chapter 19 (Logan)

  Chapter 20 (Grace)

  Chapter 21 (Logan)

  Chapter 22 (Grace)

  Chapter 23 (Grace)

  Chapter 24 (Logan)

  Chapter 25 (Grace)

  Two Months Later

  Chapter 26 (Grace)

  Chapter 27 (Logan)

  Epilogue (Logan)

  Thank you

  About the Author

  Other Titles

  Grace for Drowning

  By Maya Cross

  Copyright © 2014 by Maya Cross

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Cover image taken by Simon Fuller

  http://www.simonfullerimagery.com/

  A big thank you to my beta readers: Karen, Charlene, Beth A, Beth M, Roberta, Shannon, Leslie, Messy, Jane, Janice, Kristine, Vicki, Kim and Sarah. Your help, as always, was invaluable.

  Prologue

  Logan

  "Get your fucking hands off me."

  Those six charming words were the first she ever said to me. It was a phrase I was used to hearing at that point, and it almost always came laced with anger and a waft of beer. I didn't take offense anymore. It was just part of the job. When you work the door of a popular bar, fifty percent of your job is laying hands on people who most certainly don't want to be touched.

  What I wasn't used to was hearing that phrase from the mouths of tiny, pixie-haired girls who looked barely out of high school. Young women typically weren't angry drunks. If you asked them to leave, they were more likely to flirt than fight¸ and when that didn't work they usually tried to depart with some scrap of dignity intact. But judging by the way this girl had stumbled straight into me, she'd long since thrown dignity to the wind.

  "You walked into me." It was the first thing I'd said in hours, and my voice was hoarse, raw from a night full of desert air.

  Most people in this town aren't stupid enough to work outside. The heat here isn't like other heat; it's Vegas heat. Scalding, mineral, fry-a-fuckin'-egg-on-the-sidewalk heat. But I'm not like most people. The desert climate suits me just fine. I don't feel at home without a dry throat and a lather of sweat.

  The girl pushed off my chest and tottered backward, sizing me up with glassy eyes. She was beautiful, or at least I thought she would have been under other circumstances, but there was something heavy in her expression now, an invisible weight that pulled everything tight. Her eyes were the worst. Hollow, haunted, empty. It was a look I knew all too well. I saw it every morning in the mirror when I woke up.

  Somehow she'd managed to smuggle a drink past the guys inside. A little of it had splashed down my shirt; straight vodka, judging by the burn in my nostrils. A serious drink for a serious occasion.

  "Whatever," she slurred, before stumbling away and planting herself on the curb.

  I knew I should just leave her alone. I wasn't looking to make friends, and she clearly wasn't in a talking mood, but something about her manner called to me. This wasn't just an 'end of a crappy week' bender. This was something bigger, something much more dangerous. I didn't have much to offer. Hell, I could barely keep my own shit under control, but I felt compelled to say something nonetheless. I'd spent my fair share of time hunting salvation at the bottom of a bottle, and I knew you always came up empty-handed.

  I crossed the sidewalk and squatted down next to her. "You think maybe you've had enough?"

  She glared at me. "What the hell do you care?"

  "I'm not trying to interfere, but Charlie in there," I nodded to the bar, "will kill me if I let you make off with that glass. He's particular like that." It was a lie, but it was all I could come up with.

  Defiance flared in her eyes, and without breaking her gaze she raised her drink and downed the entire thing in one long swig, wincing as she swallowed. "Satisfied?" she asked, waving the empty glass in my direction.

  So, she wasn't going to make this easy. Transferring my weight to my hands, I dropped until I was sitting next to her. Her scowl deepened, but she didn't move.

  We sat in silence for maybe thirty seconds. Since she'd dodged my clumsy attempt to intervene, all I had left was the direct approach. "It doesn't help, you know."

  Her head whipped around. "What?"

  "Drinking. It doesn't help. Believe me, I've tried."

  She narrowed her eyes, as if she was trying to work out what my angle was. "What the hell do you know?"

  I shrugged. "Not much, but I know when someone is hurting."

  Her expression softened for a moment, her mouth dropping ever so slightly open as though I'd caught her off guard, but it didn't last long. "Go to hell," she spat, and this time she did leave.

  I watched her stumble away, shoulders slumped and already glistening with sweat. Strangely, I felt a pang of guilt, like I should have done more. I hoped that I was wrong, that whatever had driven her to this was just a passing sadness, but I couldn't make myself believe it.

  Four Months Later

  Chapter One

  Grace

  A girl greeted me as I approached the bar. "What can I get for you this afternoon?"

  She was pretty, with long red hair and impossibly milky skin, and she wore the kind of beaming smile usually reserved for people on serious drugs and children's television hosts; the two of which may not be mutually exclusive, if you ask me. I had no idea where anyone got the energy to be that happy. Even in better times, I could only muster that much enthusiasm in short bursts, usually ones that involved ice cream or reruns of Jersey Shore, yet here she was, at three in the afternoon, grinning like a maniac at someone she'd just met. It had to be an act.

  A thirsty lump began building in my throat as I eyed the bottles lined up behind her. It was tempting. I was pretty sure drinking in front of my future colleagues before my first shift was the definition of getting off to a bad start, but, then again, most of my decisions lately hadn't been particularly well thought out.

  I gave my head a small shake. Focus. You need this. "Nothing, thanks. I'm actually supposed to be starting here today. My name's Grace."

  Somehow her grin managed to widen further still. "Oh my god. Charlie told me you were coming today. I'm so happy to meet you." She extended her hand. "I'm Joy."

  Joy? Seriously? My name's a noun too, but I'm about as graceful as an elephant on a carousel. Some people get all the damn luck.

  "Well, I'm happy to be here," I said, returning the gesture. The bar was nice — run down, but in a charming sort of way, with scuffed wooden floors and a host of beer posters from the fifties and sixties adorning the walls. It felt like it belonged in a small town in the middle of Nowheresville, rather than just a hop skip and jump from the Vegas strip. Something about the place seemed vaguely familiar, but
that might have just been because I'd spent more than my fair share of time in bars over the last few months. Drink enough and they all start blurring together.

  Joy clapped. "Okay, we need to get you a shirt, and then I'll start showing you the ropes. Have you worked a bar before?"

  "Not as such. I'm more of a restaurants and cafes girl."

  "Oh cool! They're not that different. I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time." She looped her arm through mine, as though we'd been friends for years, and led me toward a door at the back of the room. "This is going to be so much fun. It's been ages since we had anyone new through here."

  That enthusiasm was strangely infectious and, in spite of myself, I found a genuine smile creeping onto my face. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was a turning point. God knew that after the last four months, I needed one.

  The sight that greeted me on the other side of the door caused me to freeze in place. "What the hell is all this?"

  The bar out the front was a fairly sizable for somewhere off the Strip, but the room back here absolutely dwarfed it. It was at least two hundred feet across in both directions. Spilling from each wall down to the center of the room were tiered bleachers, the front rows of each all coming to rest just a few feet from a massive circular platform that rose up out of the floor — a grimy white disk hemmed in by heavy black netting, like some giant spider's lair.

  Joy hesitated. "It's the ring. Your friend didn't tell you about it?"

  I shook my head.

  "Oh boy. Well, in a nutshell, Charlie doesn't just run the bar, he also has his little side project. Final Blow."

  "Final Blow?"

  "You know what UFC is?"

  I shrugged. "Kind of."

  "Well, it's like that. An ongoing mixed martial arts league. It's not nearly as big as UFC, or Pride, or any of the heavy hitters, but it's gradually making a name for itself around Vegas. In fact, these days, I'm starting to think the bar might be the side project."

  I blinked a few times, struggling to process this new info. I wasn't exactly one for sports, and I wasn't quite sure I was in a place where I wanted to start learning. "So, what, two guys go in and beat the crap out of each other until there's only one standing?"

  She tilted her head from side to side. "Kind of. There's rules, but that's the general gist."

  "Sounds charming."

  She laughed. "I felt the same way when I started here, but it's not that bad. It's kind of exciting, to be honest. Plus, the bodies on some of these guys," she made an elaborate sign of the cross, "sweet Jesus."

  I tried to share her conspiratorial smile, but the truth was, ogling guys was about the last thing I wanted to be doing right now.

  "So how often do the fights run?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.

  "It varies, but about once a month."

  "And we work them?"

  "Yep. They tend to be pretty crazy nights, so you've gotta keep your wits about you, but the tips are more than worth it. You can make a week's worth in a single night if you're on your game."

  "Now that I can get behind."

  I followed Joy into a storage room that sat nestled under the bleachers. She rummaged in a box for a few moments, and came up holding a black T-shirt with 'Charlie's' printed across the front.

  "Try this," she said, handing it to me and turning her back. "So what brings you to Charlie's, anyway? The boss just said you were a friend of a friend looking for work."

  "That's pretty much the sum of it." In truth, that was only the tiniest fraction of the story, but I wasn't about to bare my soul to someone I'd just met. Those tears were mine and mine alone. "Things at my last job didn't work out, so now I'm here." I slipped the new shirt over my head. "Seems to fit."

  Joy spun back toward me and smiled wickedly. "Perfect. Now you're one of us."

  "Should I be afraid?" I asked.

  "Probably," she said, in a mock serious voice, "but it won't help you now."

  I laughed. It felt good. God, how long had it been since I'd laughed?

  "Charlie will be in later," Joy continued. "When it's quiet it's usually just a few of us and Rafi in the kitchen. You'll be behind the bar with me for the first week, so if you've got any questions, I'm just a shoulder tap away."

  "Great."

  "Come and I'll show you where we keep everything."

  And so my new life began. It didn't feel like much yet, but it was a start.

  *****

  The first two hours were a blur of information. Charlie's wasn't just some hole-in-the-wall bar with a house red and Bud on tap. They had ten draught beers available and a wine list that would have impressed several of the sommeliers from my past life. Then there were the cocktails.

  "Ah, Sludge. An old bar favorite," Joy said with a grin, eyeing the toxic looking monstrosity I'd just poured from a shaker. I had no idea what I'd done wrong. All the ingredients had been such pretty colors, but through some strange alchemy, when I'd shaken them together they just came out looking like runny mud. I can spend an entire day making a perfect seven texture chocolate cake, but I can't even mix three liquids together to make something called a Bumble Bee. Awesome.

  Joy laughed at my expression. "Don't worry, I'll take you through them all after the shift if you like, show you the ropes. It's not that tough."

  "Are you sure? I don't want to take up your time."

  "It's fine. It'll give us a chance to get to know one another."

  I nodded, although I felt something tighten in my chest. I appreciated the effort she was making, but I didn't know if a friend was what I needed right now. Making friends meant answering questions, and that wasn't something I could easily do right now.

  The bar was quiet at first, and just before the trickle of patrons turned into a stream, a man arrived and slipped in behind the bar.

  "You must be Grace."

  I nodded. "Charlie?"

  He made a finger gun and shot it at me with a click of his tongue. "Got it." He looked to be in his late fifties, but still strong. A weathered oak that had stood the test of time. Despite the silver hair and crinkled brown paper skin, the thickness of his arms and the straightness of his back said he could still throw a younger man out of here himself if push came to shove.

  "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," I replied.

  "Likewise. You settling in okay?"

  "Yeah. Joy has been wonderful."

  He nodded. "She's a real sweetheart."

  "I know I already said it over the phone, but I really appreciate you taking me on. I know the economy isn't exactly great right now." In truth, 'appreciate' wasn't close to a strong enough word. This job was the only thing between me and eviction, but I didn't want to sound too desperate.

  "Don't worry about it. We were looking for someone anyway, so when our mutual friend asked if I had anything available, the timing was perfect. Really, you're the one doing me a favor."

  I liked him instantly. He had that stern-with-a-kind-gooey-center vibe that most great dads have. Winding up here was one big lucky coincidence. A friend of a friend who just happened to mention my situation to the right people at the right time. I didn't deserve that sort of good fortune, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "If you say so."

  "I do. Anyway, I'll let you get back to it. I'll be in the office if you need anything."

  "Thanks."

  As night fell, I began to slip into a rhythm. It was mindless work for the most part. Pull, twist, pour, shake, smile, repeat. The air took on a malty heaviness and the volume gradually rose as the booze began to wend its way through veins, loosening tongues. For the most part, I took it in stride. The one problem was vodka. When everything had gone to shit, that had been my drink of choice. There's something cathartic about the burn it leaves behind, like it isn't just numbing, but cleansing too. And tonight, whenever I was asked for a screwdriver or a vodka and Coke, I got a little whiff of that pungent, sterile heat, and I felt a yearning stir in my stomach, an invi
sible hand shooting up to snatch desperately at those precious fumes.

  I know, I know, getting work in bar wasn't exactly the smartest decision after I'd managed to drink myself out of my last job, but the truth was, I didn't have much of a choice. Nowhere else was hiring, or at least they weren't hiring me. I must have left resumes at every restaurant, department store and cafe in town. But Vegas is a city that runs on disposable income, so the financial crisis hit it harder than most places. Everyone was tightening the purse strings and hanging onto what they had right now. It had been a little over a month since I'd been let go, and my credit card was already maxed. Another week and I wasn't going to be able to pony up my rent. I had to take what I could get. Besides, that whole drinking thing had just been a temporary lapse. A little grief induced meltdown. I'd been sober a week. Not a drop since I heard I had this job. This was a new beginning for me, and I could handle whatever curve balls it threw my way. I had to.

  The evening ground on. At some point, during one of my brief reprieves, I happened to glance up and found a pair of fierce blue eyes looking back at me. I froze. The guy was leaning against the wall next to the front door, about ten feet away. Most of his body was cast in shadow, but I could tell by the bulging darkness that he was huge. Like, bench pressed Buicks in his spare time kind of huge.

  I glanced around, figuring maybe that look was for someone else, but the area around me was empty. When he was still staring thirty seconds later, I sidled up to Joy. "Is that something I should be worried about?" I asked, nodding subtly in his direction.

  She glanced over and gave a little laugh. "That depends on if you have a weakness for six packs and ink." The way she said that made it abundantly clear how she felt on the matter. "His name is Logan," she continued. "He works the door here most nights. Kind of intense, right?"

  I nodded. "That's one way to put it." He'd looked away now, his eyes systematically scanning the room, but the memory of that gaze still lingered in my mind. "He was staring at me."