“You have got to be kidding me,” I remark to the bouncer. I’m smiling to convey that it’s a joke.

“I didn’t invite all these people here tonight.” The bouncer’s eyes are wide, and his voice is high with incredulousness, but I think he gets my joke.

He just doesn’t find it very funny.

“It’s not much of a joke, anyway,” I say as I pocket my ID.

“No. No, it wasn’t.”

There might be the tiniest hint of a smile on the bouncer’s face. I suddenly feel fucking awful when I realize I don’t even know his name.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever caught your name. You’re one of the newer bouncers, right? I know pretty much everyone here…”

“Carl.”

Carl exhales with conclusive impatience. He’s got no more time for this shit.

I can see where he’s coming from. When you see a guy like me, walking around in expensive-ass clothes, hanging out all the time in one of the least pretentious, cheapest bars in the neighborhood, and spending all his time chatting up the staff, well…

Let’s just say I wouldn’t blame anyone for their bullshit detector going off.

This is my area. I’ve known it my entire fucking life. I knew it back when nobody would even dare to wear expensive shit around here—not that my family could afford it when I was growing up.

“Yo, Barrett!”

It fucking looks like Ryan’s in a mood tonight. He catches sight of me much earlier than usual as I walk through the crowd.

At my office, we’re getting down to a real skeleton crew by now. Although I’m still keeping things anchored at the end of the hall for the time being.

Here at Lush Republic—the other institution in my life that’s about to be upheaved for fucking good—things are not even close to skeleton crew status.

Not unless you’re talking about the minimal staff, but it’s always been that way.

Here at Lush Republic, early on a cold Tuesday evening in March, this is about as far from a fucking skeleton crew as you can get.

“You’re looking rather chipper tonight.” I’m doing my best to temper the sarcastic edge to my words. It’s kind of working.

“This place has been fucking crazy lately,” comments Ryan. “They should look into expanding or something.”

Looking at my wristwatch, I see that it’s just past 8:00 p.m. Yep, I guess I was overdue to hear something that makes me feel like someone just tore my fucking heart out of my chest and stomped on it.

Par for the fucking course these days.

But I know I said I’d stop complaining, so...

“Have you called Josie yet?”

“Dude, she’s right over there.” Ryan points his thumb over his shoulder to where Josie’s standing by an old, defunct dartboard on the wall.

She’s wearing a different pair of leather-patched jeans than she had on last time. The patches on these are more of a chocolate brown.

She’s also talking to a guy in Brooks Brothers suit who looks like a day trader—we get them around here sometimes.

Hey, I fucking am one of them, pretty much. But you know that.

And Josie...

Did she just throw a dart?

“Holy shit, I’ve never seen anyone use that fucking dartboard before. I thought it was just decoration—or, something like that.”

“It was,” Ryan comments dryly before taking a sip of his beer. That’s about as caustic as Ryan gets.

The Brooks Brothers day trader guy takes a big step back from the board. Josie hands him a dart, and he chucks it at the wall. It hits the very outer edge of the board, and he just walks away.

“I bet he would’ve kept playing if he got a bullseye.” Ryan’s full of commentary tonight.

“Wait, are you telling me she brought her own darts?”

“It looks that way,” Ryan says. “Maybe she got them at the new Target or something.”

I watch for a moment as Josie continues her darts game on her own. Her next throw is a little better than the day trader’s, but not by much.

“For some reason, I don’t think she shops at Target.”

“Come on, Ethan.” Ryan’s smiling at his own joke—and at the fact that he finally got one over on me.

“What can I say, Ry. I’m not exactly the quickest motherfucker on the planet these days.”

We watch as Josie seems to consider the now dart-laden board. Her arms are crossed like she’s studying a Matisse at the Met.

“You didn’t come here with her, did you?” I ask.

“Dude, we talked on the phone for a while, but that’s it. She likes to talk, but I don’t really know what her deal is.”

We turn back to the bar to leave Josie to do whatever Josie does.

“Have you met anyone else? Gotten any other numbers?”

Ryan shrugs. “It’s only been a couple days.”

That’s true—it’s only been a couple day since that epic Saturday night here. I haven’t been keeping the best track of time.

Barely sleeping doesn’t help much with that.

And even if I’d been sleeping ten fucking hours a night, the fact of the matter is my mind is elsewhere.

And it’s also fucking everywhere.

It’s on this bar, it’s on Basel...

It’s on a whole fucking lot of different things.

I’m trying to keep it on a lot of different things, anyway.

But you know how minds can be sometimes. Sometimes, they like to keep straying to the same few things.

But, as I’ve said, I’m making it a point not to dwell on any of that shit.

“When you’re right, Ryan, you’re right. I’m not even sure what I’m fucking asking anymore. Sorry.”

Ryan throws his head back and laughs loudly enough for the entire bar—or maybe the entire neighborhood—to hear.

“The Great Ethan Barrett apologizes! I’m getting scared. This might be one of the signs of the fucking apocalypse or something.”

“I apologize all the time.” I’m trying to sound emphatic, but Ryan’s still laughing too fucking loudly. And I really have no clue how fucking much I apologize or don’t apologize.

“Not to me!” Ryan’s still grinning with great amusement.

“Well, sorry, Ryan, really. I didn’t realize I was at the point where an apology would be enough to cause you to die with fucking laughter.” I take a sip of the stout that Stacia or Charles must’ve left me while I wasn’t looking. “Hey, you know what? I just apologized to the bouncer, so...”

Ryan cracks the fuck up again, and I join him.

I probably haven’t laughed at all in the last three days, at least. When I start this time, it takes the fuck over, and I crack the fuck up. I laugh so hard it’s almost fucking scary—but it helps that Ryan’s laughing just as fucking hard.

I’m laughing with exhaustion.

I’m laughing at the pure fucking absurdity of everything.

I’m laughing...did I say with exhaustion yet?

I really need to get some sleep.

“Carina!”

Hearing Ryan shout my sisters name cracks me the fuck up again—although, this time, Ryan just stares at me.

Fucking seriously, since when is Ryan so excited to see my sister?

Usually, he seems irritated if I invite my sister somewhere without fucking running it by him or something.

But fuck it, I don’t really care. Ryan has yet to ask about the investigation...or anything related to it. I’m just going to stay grateful for that.

If we’re able to stay away from that subject, I might just be able to get a couple hours of sleep tonight.

You’ve gotta dream big, right? At this point, even dreaming small would be pretty fucking nice.

The next sip of my stout seems tasteless, which scares me a little, because I’m having trouble parsing the side effects of sleep deprivation from the effects of just plain being fucking distracted from whatever else my stressed out fucking brain wants to throw at me.

But, hey, I can’t complain.

I fucking shouldn’t, anyway.

The first evidence I get of Carina’s presence—apart from Ryan’s yelling, that is—is her oversized white leather purse plunked on the bar next to my pint glass.

“This place is fucking growing on me, Ethan. What have you done?”

What have I done? That’s a question for another fucking time, I think.

But hearing it is probably enough to inspire another fucking sleepless night. I’m becoming an old pro at those by now.

“I need to stop fucking complaining,” I mutter aloud.

“Huh?” Carina’s justifiably confused as she plops herself down onto the barstool next to mine.

“It’s an ongoing problem I have, that’s all.”

“You won’t hear me say this about too many things, but I know people who are a lot worse that you about that.”

“Ah, that’s sweet.” I let my sarcasm come out undiluted for that comment.

“I can’t believe that place on the Bowery,” Carina begins. “Their studio apartments start at, like, four grand a month.”

“Not every place is like that, Carina.”

“It’s getting there, Ethan.”

“She’s right,” Ryan says. “It’s getting ridiculous. It kind of already is.”

Out of nowhere, my eyes will just not stay open. It only lasts for about a second, but it’s like I’m struck by a tiny flash of deep sleep before my body jerks back awake.

“Holy shit. I think I need to go home.”

I don’t complain too much that neither my sister nor by best friend seem too disappointed about me leaving early. They go right off into their own conversation a I lurch out onto the avenue to find a taxi.

As powerful as that urge to sleep was at the bar, by the time I’m home in bed, I can’t do anything but stare at the darkened ceiling.

These are the moments, when I’m by myself with nothing to distract me, that the deep regrets of the past few days come swimming to the surface—and they have absolutely no interest in letting me sleep or leaving me alone.