Chapter 4 - The Shadow In The Corner And The Arrival Of The Golden Boy
The bar station was set up near the side porch, manned by a professional bartender in a white jacket who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth than pouring mimosas for Charleston’s elite.
I leaned against the mahogany counter, waiting for the bartender to finish pouring a round of Bellinis for a group of overly tanned uncles.
“Bourbon or scotch?” the kid asked nervously, his hands hovering over the bottles.
“Macallan eighteen, if you have it,” I said.
The bartender paused, his eyes flicking up to my face.
Something in my expression—or maybe just the total lack of urgency in my voice—made him drop his gaze and immediately start digging under the counter.
He came up with a heavy crystal bottle with a faded label that didn't look like it had been put out for the general public.
“Good choice, sir,” he muttered, pouring a generous three fingers into a heavy tumbler without adding ice.
As I picked up the glass, a shadow fell across the bar.
I didn't turn my head immediately.
I just watched the reflection in the polished brass garnish tray beside the fruit bowls.
A man was stepping up beside me.
He was thirty-two, dressed in a lightweight linen suit that cost more than a used sedan, with his sandy blonde hair perfectly styled and a smile plastered across his face that looked like it had been rehearsed in front of a mirror every morning since high school.
Miles Harper.
The golden boy.
The man who owned a yacht named The Nora II and had Diane Bennett’s eternal blessing to take over the family legacy.
“Rough crowd, huh?” Miles said, his voice smooth, confident, and dripping with that particular brand of arrogant entitlement native to the South Carolina lowcountry.
I took a slow sip of the Macallan, letting the burn settle the faint edge of boredom in my chest, before turning my head to look at him.
“Depends on who you’re talking to,” I replied, my voice neutral.
Miles chuckled, leaning his elbow against the bar and flashing a set of teeth that looked suspiciously like they’d been bleached.
“I’m Miles, by the way. Miles Harper.”
He extended a hand.
I looked down at his manicured fingers, then slowly lifted my glass of scotch with my right hand, making it physically impossible for me to shake his hand without spilling liquor all over his expensive Italian linen.
Miles’s smile flickered for half a second—just a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—before he smoothly dropped his hand back to his side, acting like he hadn't just been subtly rejected in front of half the guest list.
“Right,” Miles said, his voice dropping the breezy friendliness and picking up a slightly sharper, more territorial edge.
“And you must be… Evan.”
He didn't bother asking for my last name.
Men like Miles didn't think outsiders needed last names; to them, anyone outside the Charleston inner circle was just a temporary distraction.
“That’s what they’re calling me today,” I said, taking another slow sip of the scotch.
Miles turned his body slightly, squaring up toward me so he could tower over the bar.
He was shorter than me by a couple of inches, though he clearly spent three hours a day at a high-end cross-training gym trying to compensate for it.
“Nora and I go back a long way,” Miles said, his tone turning confidential and patronizing all at once.
“Grade school, cotillion, summers down in Kiawah Island. Her mother and my parents have practically been planning our future since we were in diapers.”
“Is that right?” I murmured, my face remaining a mask of utter indifference.
“It is,” Miles pressed, stepping a fraction closer.
“So you can imagine everyone’s surprise when she suddenly rolls up to Magnolia House with a guy who looks like he just stepped off a freight ship downtown.”
I went completely, terrifyingly still.
The bar around us seemed to quiet down for a fraction of a second, the ambient noise fading into a low hum.
I turned my head slowly, letting my eyes lock onto Miles Harper’s pale blue gaze.
I didn't blink.
I didn't smile.
I just let a fraction of the weight—the heavy, dark, suffocating weight of the docks after midnight—spill out into the space between us.
“Freight ships bring a lot of valuable things into this city, Miles,” I said softly, my voice dropping down into that low, gravelly register that made the bartender three feet away suddenly find the lime wedge terribly interesting.
“And sometimes, they carry things people didn’t order. You want to be careful about what you try to claim.”
May you like
Miles’s breath hitched.
He didn't know what I was, but his reptile brain—the part of him that understood survival—was screaming at him to take two steps back.
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