Author's Preface
Misty wasn't sick.
She had come in late, sneaking through the back door to avoid the morning rush. She had been hiding in the warehouse, trying to work up the courage to talk to Jax. She had practiced her speech a hundred times. She was going to apologize. She was going to tell him she didn't mean to cause a scene. She was going to beg him to just talk to her.
Instead, she had watched from the shadows of the shipping bay as Jax climbed into Stacy’s white SUV.
She saw the way he leaned over the console to kiss her. She saw the windows start to fog up, obscuring the stick-figure family stickers on the back windshield—two little girls and a dog.
It was a punch to the gut, harder than any metal bin could have delivered.
He wasn't confused. He wasn't "working through things." He was happy. He was back with his perfect wife in her perfect car, leaving Misty standing in the dirt with ruined shoes and a broken heart.
"Okay," she whispered to the empty warehouse. "Okay."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her mascara into a black bruise across her cheek. She wasn't going to cry anymore. Crying was for girls who thought they could be saved.
Misty didn't need saving. She needed a weapon.
She turned around and walked back toward the production floor. She moved with a purpose now, her boots hitting the concrete with a heavy, angry rhythm.
She passed the breakroom. Ryder was there, standing by the vending machine, laughing at something on his phone.
He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that strained across his biceps. He looked carefree. He looked loyal. He looked like the perfect target.
Misty slowed down. She smoothed her hair, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. She licked her lips, tasting salt and lipstick.
"Ryder," she said.
He looked up, startled. His smile faltered when he saw her face. "Whoa. Misty. You okay? You look... intense."
"I need a favor," she said, stepping into his space.
"A favor? Jax said you went home."
"Jax is busy," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "With his wife. In the parking lot."
Ryder winced. He looked toward the front of the building, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah. I heard. Look, Misty, maybe you should just—"
"I need you to check something for me," she interrupted. "In the Compressor Room. I think... I think I left my earring back there. The diamond one."
Ryder frowned. "You were in the Compressor Room?"
"Yesterday," she lied. "With Jax. Before everything blew up. Please, Ryder. My mom gave me those earrings. If I lose them..."
She let her voice wobble. She widened her eyes, looking up at him with that helpless, damsel-in-distress look that always worked on Jax.
Ryder sighed. He was a simple guy. He hated seeing girls cry. "Fine. I'll go look. But if Jax finds out—"
"He won't," she promised. "He's too busy."
Ryder nodded and headed toward the back hallway. Misty followed him, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
The Compressor Room was deafening. The rhythmic THUMP-HISS of the massive engines vibrated in the floor, rattling Misty’s teeth. The air was hot and dry, smelling of oil and ozone.
Ryder walked in, scanning the floor with a flashlight. "I don't see anything, Misty," he shouted over the noise.
Misty closed the heavy steel door behind them. She threw the deadbolt.
Click.
Ryder turned at the sound. He saw the lock. He saw Misty standing there, her back against the door, staring at him.
"Misty?" he asked, lowering the flashlight. "What are you doing?"
"There is no earring," she said.
She walked toward him. She didn't sway her hips this time. She stalked. She looked at him—at his arms, his chest, his mouth. He looked like Jax, but younger. Harder. Less complicated.
"Misty, I can't be in here with you," Ryder said, backing up until he hit the safety rail of Compressor #2. "Jax is my best friend."
"Jax is a liar," she said, stopping a foot away from him. "He used me, Ryder. He used me and he threw me away. And now he's out there laughing about it."
"That sucks," Ryder said, looking for an exit. "But that's between you and him."
"Is it?" She reached out and touched his chest. Her hand was hot against his black t-shirt. "He thinks he owns this place. He thinks he owns you."
Ryder bristled. "He doesn't own me."
"Doesn't he?" She ran her hand down his arm, feeling the muscle jump. "You follow him around like a puppy. You cover for him. You lie for him. And what does he give you? Scraps."
"He's the boss," Ryder muttered.
"He's weak," Misty corrected. "He's scared of his wife. He's scared of Deb. He's scared of me."
She stepped closer, pressing her body against his. She looked up into his eyes. They were brown, lighter than Jax's.
"You aren't scared, are you?"
Ryder swallowed hard. He looked down at her. He looked at the swell of her chest above the tight blue polo. He smelled her vanilla perfume mixing with the industrial heat.
He knew this was wrong. He knew this was a violation of every code he lived by. But he also knew that he had spent five years watching Jax get everything he wanted. The promotion. The wife. The girls.
And Misty... Misty was looking at him like he was the only man in the room.
"Misty," he warned, his voice rough. "Don't start something you can't finish."
"I'm not starting anything," she whispered, her hand moving to his belt. "I'm finishing it."
She kissed him.
It wasn't a question. It was a demand. She bit his lip, hard enough to hurt.
Ryder froze for a split second, his brain fighting his body. Then, he broke.
He grabbed her waist, his hands huge and rough. He spun her around, slamming her back against the vibrating metal of the compressor housing.
"You're crazy," he growled against her mouth.
"Show me," she challenged. "Show me you're better than him."
That was the trigger. The competition. The jealousy. The years of being second best.
Ryder didn't hold back. He lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He didn't bother with foreplay. He tore at her clothes, his hands frantic and clumsy with need.
Misty gasped as he entered her. It was rough. It was angry. It was exactly what she wanted.
She threw her head back, her eyes finding the ceiling. She wasn't thinking about Ryder. She was thinking about Jax. She imagined Jax walking in right now. She imagined the look on his face when he saw his best friend taking what he thought was his.
"Jax," she whispered, but the sound was lost in the roar of the machine.
Ryder didn't hear her. He was lost in it, driving into her with a punishing rhythm that shook the safety rail. He grunted, sweat dripping from his face onto hers.
Misty dug her nails into his shoulders, drawing blood. She wanted to leave a mark. She wanted him to carry the scars of this into the locker room tomorrow. She wanted Jax to see them.
"Harder," she screamed. "Harder!"
Ryder obeyed. He slammed into her, chasing his own release, using her body to exorcise his own demons.
When it was over, there was no cuddling. No tenderness.
Ryder pulled away, stumbling back, his chest heaving. He looked at Misty, who was sliding down the machine to the floor, her clothes disheveled, her hair a mess.
He looked horrified.
"Oh god," he whispered, fixing his pants. "Oh god, Misty. I... I can't believe I did that."
Misty stood up. She smoothed her shirt. She checked her reflection in the polished metal of the gauge. Her lipstick was smeared. Her neck was red.
She smiled. It was a cold, satisfied smile.
"You didn't do anything, Ryder," she said, walking to the door. "We did it together."
"You can't tell him," Ryder pleaded, stepping toward her. "Misty, please. He'll kill me. He'll fire me."
Misty unlocked the door. She looked back at him.
"Don't worry, sweetie," she said. "I won't tell him."
I'll let him figure it out.
She walked out into the hallway, leaving Ryder alone with his guilt and the smell of her perfume.
She walked back toward the production floor. She felt lighter. The ache in her chest was gone, replaced by a hollow, burning satisfaction.
She had burned the bridge. Now she just had to wait for the smoke to clear.
***
Barb and Tammy were sitting on the edge of the dock, swinging their legs. The rain had stopped, but the concrete was still steaming.
"There she is," Tammy whispered, pointing with a half-eaten sandwich.
Misty walked out the side door. She wasn't crying this time. She was walking with a strange, jerky rhythm. She walked straight to her car.
"She looks... different," Barb noted.
"She looks like she just got into a fight," Tammy said. "Her hair is a mess."
"Not a fight," Barb corrected. "A skirmish."
A minute later, the side door opened again.
Ryder walked out.
He looked like a man walking to the gallows. His head was down. He was wiping his face with his shirt. He walked to his truck and sat inside for a long time before starting the engine.
Tammy gasped, dropping her sandwich. "Ryder? And Misty? In the same hallway?"
"At the same time," Barb added. "For twenty minutes."
"No way. He wouldn't. That's Jax's best friend."
"That was Jax's best friend," Barb said, lighting a cigarette. "Now? Now he's just another casualty."
"Does Jax know?"
"Not yet," Barb said, looking at the empty parking spot where Jax’s truck had been. "But he will. Secrets in a factory are like grease, Tammy. You can try to wipe them up, but they always leave a stain."
She exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cooling afternoon air.
"This summer ain't over yet. And I have a feeling the fall is going to be brutal."