Ever After: A Rock Star Redemption Romance

By Roxie Noir

Once upon a time, a girl saved my life.

I was p*ss-drunk, high as a kite, and about to jump from a bridge.

She stopped me. I told her to f*ck off.

Exactly how all great love stories start.

A year later, I met her again. Sober this time, after yet another stint in rehab.

She’s still pretty, still a spitfire, still lights up a room when she walks in.

And she doesn’t realize I’m the guy from the bridge.

Frankie doesn’t know anything about me or my past. She doesn’t know I’m a former rock star or an ex-junkie.

She doesn’t know that two years ago, someone died and it was my fault.

She doesn’t need to know. She’s got problems of her own, and they’re what keep her coming back to see me time and again, even when we both know she shouldn’t.

I should be staying far, far away from this girl, but it’s like telling water to flow uphill. Can’t be done.

Frankie and I may be going down in flames, but we’ll be going down together.

Ever After is the third book in the Dirtshine Trilogy, and can be read as a standalone. It's for fans of high heat romances and anyone who loves rock stars, second chances, heroes getting redemption, the band getting back together, or angst with a side of humor. It's got plenty of steamy scenes, and of course, there's an HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clever Capybara
• Release date: Mar 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9791222075174

Book preview

PROLOGUE

LIAM

The light’s approaching. It’s slow, but it’s coming.

All I can do is watch it. Wait for it. There’s something peaceful and soothing about the bright circle moving slowly through the night, the bright cone it casts lighting the tracks and the trees off to the side, crisp bags and cardboard boxes and whatever other shit has made its way down there.

A breeze pushes at me, gently, cool and damp. It’s October and sodding everything is cool and damp, the feel of wetness never out of my bones, the blue sky a goddamn dream that I’d miss anyway because today I woke up at four-thirty in the evening and the sun was already hovering at the horizon.

I raise the bottle to my lips again. Not much left. I take a glug anyway, think about throwing the last few drops at the light. The sound it would make, a cymbal crash of glass in the quiet village night.

I think about throwing myself toward it, the hush and whir and clank of steel rolling on steel growing louder. Take another sip, my stomach twisting, my foot slipping on a stone slick with the damp but I right myself before I fall.

That was close.

It didn’t feel close.

It didn’t feel like anything.

I sway again. Deliberately this time, and now the cone of light and the deep cloudy sky above and the tracks below all tilt and jerk, the vodka running through my veins at high velocity.

There’s a delayed prickle and rush of my brain screaming you’re going to fall, but I lean into it because at least it’s something. Because it won’t hurt, not for long. Because the light coming on fast down below feels like all there is. There’s not even my body, just this single dot and beam, all-consuming.

I understand why moths fly toward flames. I’ve always understood.

More light, off to my left, the bounce of headlights over cobblestones. I freeze in place, just another of the rocks on this bridge. Whoever’s driving around out here at the very bottom of the night is likely sloshed as well, likely to think I’m a particularly upright and ugly gargoyle standing guard.

The headlights bounce. The car proceeds, slowly, onto the bridge, the purr of the engine echoing from the stones.

And it stops. There’s another hum, briefly, and I stay stock-still so I can’t be seen.

Silence. I wait, gargoyle-like, but I know the quiet’s broken.

Hey, are you okay? a girl’s voice asks. American, loud enough to be heard over the oncoming train below.

I don’t answer. How the fuck am I to answer if I’m stone?

Hello?

The train’s coming closer, almost to the bridge. I’m fixated, itching to see what it feels like to finally go, fly, fall. Just to find out. A car door opens and closes behind me.

Please don’t jump, she says, closer now. Maybe five feet behind me.

I lift one foot from the stones of the bridge’s railing. Just to see.

Listen, do it tomorrow night or something instead, she says. "Or do it later, like when the next train comes, it’s just that now I’m here and I really don’t do blood and gore and if you do jump right now I’ll have to be the one who calls it in, and your body parts will be scattered for a mile because it takes trains a really long time to stop and think of what a huge pain in the ass that is for everyone—"

"Jesus fucking Christ can a man have some peace? I finally ask, both feet back on stone. Even in the dead of night there’s some American slag who’s got to come nosing about in what’s not her fucking business."

I turn, bottle in hand, stones slippery beneath my feet. My body jerks as I nearly lose my footing, and the girl gasps, both hands flying to her mouth.

Careful! she shouts, her voice muffled.

Safe as milk, I say, my voice nasty and sharp over the roar of the train below.

She’s dim, the only light on her the reflected glow of headlights, as the train’s single headlamp rushes beneath us, clattering along the tracks. I raise the bottle to my lips and guzzle the last few sips.

It doesn’t do a thing. No warm rush, no swirl through my body. I’m just numb, because I guess that’s what happens at the bottom of a fifth of vodka.

She says something else. Her mouth moves, her face pale with barely reflected light, the damp breeze moving dark curls around it. I can’t hear her over the train, so I just shrug.

Please get down, she repeats, shouting now.

Or what?

I just don’t want you to fall.

I laugh, tossing the bottle in my hand. Somehow, I catch it again by the neck, and look at her, grinning.

Then that makes one of us.

You’re drunk, she starts.

Am I?

And I’m sure you wouldn’t be here normally, probably something’s happened that’s really upset you and I know everything feels hopeless right now—

I toss the bottle again, the glass reflecting the light as it arcs up, but even though I jerk my hand out I miss it as it falls and it crashes to the cobblestones of the bridge below.

The bottle shatters. The girl jumps, and even as I start laughing, she glances at me.

Her eyes are huge, shining. On the brink of tears.

I hop off the railing to the road and only stumble a little, because even though everything is numb like I’ve taken a dose of novocaine to the soul, I don’t think I can watch this obnoxious American girl cry.

Thank you, she shouts.

I bow sarcastically, and nearly trip over my own feet and into the shattered bottle as I do, then catch myself.

Watch out! she yelps.

You’re welcome to fucking leave now, I say. Or do you want to watch me walk off this bridge and away from danger so you can feel like you’ve really done something for tonight?

She doesn’t say anything.

Imagine the headlines, I go on, waving an arm through the air. "Heroic American bird valiantly saves life of useless drunken arsehole, to be made honorary dame."

Just go! she shouts.

Maybe they’ll throw you a parade! I go on, the train still roaring below. I take one unsteady step toward her. She takes one step back, toward the car that’s still running. You could have a float with a reenactment of the scene, a beauty queen waving from a convertible, the mayor shouting lovely goodwill messages over a loudspeaker.

With a whoosh, the last train car passes, clanking off into the night, and sudden silence falls over us like a blanket.

Just go somewhere else and don’t jump in front of trains, she says, her voice hard, brittle, and the tiniest bit wobbly. You’re bound to ruin someone’s day if you do.

"Wouldn’t want that, I say, bitterly, her pale face wobbling in front of me. I’d simply hate to inconvenience someone."

Go home, she says softly. Go to sleep, things will seem better tomorrow.

They won’t, I say. "They never do. I seem to keep waking up in the same place staring at the same wreckage of my life and then I seem to end up here night after night."

She swallows, her lips pressed together. I’m close enough and it’s quiet enough that I can hear the sound her throat makes, and it drives me onward because despite the numbness I’ve found I like getting a reaction from her, even this.

So you’re going to offer me a ride home now, yeah? I ask, knowing she won’t. You’ve come to rescue me so now you’re going to see me back, safe and sound, tuck me into bed and make sure there’s no nightmares tonight?

The girl glares. Her eyes glitter.

I’m beginning to be sorry I stopped, she whispers.

I grin, leaning a little closer to her. A nasty, vicious grin.

I’ve been sorry this whole time, love, I snarl.

Her mouth opens but I turn away, wobble, throw my arms out, and walk. I crunch a few shards of glass beneath my boots and the cold breeze catches me, tendrils coming through my sweater.

I walk the direction her car’s not pointing, into the dark, and she doesn’t follow. I get myself off the bridge without looking back, onto the road, and even though I want to look back, want to see whether she’s relieved or angry or coming after me, I don’t.

It’s better. I shouldn’t see people, meet people, know people.

I should crawl into my hole and sleep and eat and do nothing, be nothing.

Be nowhere.

The road is lined with hedgerows and I duck through one because I want her to stop watching me. And I wait. I stand there, body beset by the tiny pricks of cedar spikes, and I wait because I can’t handle feeling her eyes on me anymore, I can’t handle knowing that she’s back there.

After a moment, the car door shuts. The engine revs. Tires over the cobblestones and then she’s finally driving away, leaving me alone again in the deep blue night.

I take a deep breath. My head spins, tilts, whirls. I rub my face and it feels like I’m rubbing my face through a blanket, my hand seems so far away.

My feet turn themselves toward the shitty basement flat I’ve been calling home, and I let them. I walk down the dark road, toward a dark village, the deep black of the northern English country threatening to swallow me from both sides.

My brain’s nearly muted. There’s nearly nothing, and that’s the point, but I do have one single thought as I stumble back.

She was pretty.

Then, black.

CHAPTER ONE

FRANKIE

A Year Later

I pause on the landing, between a painting of a stern gentleman in a cloak and some sort of heavily sculptured potted bush, and I take a deep breath. I can already hear the voices drifting up to me from the drawing room at the bottom of the stairwell, the clinking of glass and china, the soft tinkle of polite laughter.

It’s fine, I tell myself. Drink slowly, keep your voice down, act polite and interested and for the love of all that’s holy don’t call anyone by their first name.

I take another deep breath, then wobble a little. The carpet here is deceptively deep and these heels are thinner and higher than I’m used to wearing — vintage, from the 70s, I found them two weeks ago in the basement of a resale store in the Village that was going out of business.

They’re black leather with tasteful gold trim, peep toe, to go with the little black dress I’m wearing tonight. The Winsteads have company and right now, after Monday night, I’m a little bit terrified of the whole wardrobe I brought.

Miss Strauss, would you care to borrow a shawl? a voice says behind me.

I jump about a mile in the air, wobble, recover, grab the plant by accident, let it go, smile.

Apologies, Miss Strauss, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, says Eunice, the assistant housekeeper.

Not a problem, I say, trying to regain some composure. I was a little lost in thought.

Would you like to borrow that shawl?

I consider Eunice for a moment. Everything in Downhamshire-on-Kyne has layers of meaning, and worse, every question has a right answer. Even if it’s ‘what’s your favorite animal,’ there’s a right and a wrong and I somehow have gotten even single question thus far wrong.

Eunice knits her hands in front of herself. I bite my lip, looking over my shoulder toward the staircase leading to the drawing room.

Shawl pro: covers self, and self is probably inappropriate.

Shawl con: very easy to dip into soup; could probably trip over shawl.

Eunice, I finally sigh. I need you to level with me.

Poor Eunice tries to hide a smile, and it doesn’t really work, but I’m just glad the staff finds me entertaining.

"Do I want a shawl? Does this outfit need a shawl? If I go down there sans shawl will I be inviting scandal?" I ask bluntly.

Alistair, my fiancé who brought me into this mess, did warn me a month ago that we’d be expected to dress for dinner nightly while we visited his family estate and ancestral home of Downhamshire-on-Kyne. After I spent a good hour questioning him, I managed to learn:

1. Dressing for dinner does, in fact, mean I need to wear a dress;

2. It would be in poor taste to wear the same dress twice during a visit;

3. ‘Demure,’ ‘modest,’ and ‘tasteful’ should be guiding principles; and

4. Yes, seriously, a different dress every night for two whole weeks, more dresses than I owned at the time of the conversation.

I dress-shopped with a zeal I’d never felt before. No secondhand store, Goodwill, vintage shop, estate sale, or costume shop throwaway bin in the city of New York was safe, because I needed dresses and by God, I had a budget.

And I found them. When they didn’t fit or needed work, I fixed them, staying up late at night in my tiny Brooklyn studio with my trusty sewing machine and an iPod full of 80’s hits. By the end of the month I had fifteen dinner-appropriate dresses.

Fifteen. I had an extra.

At least, I thought they were appropriate. Turns out that what I think is a ‘dinner dress’ — red, A-line, pleated skirt, scoop neck, sleeveless, just above the knee — is ‘better suited to a tarted-up streetwalker on Tynesbury Alley than my son’s future wife.’

Lady Winstead didn’t say it to me. She said it to her daughter Elizabeth, but even though I don’t know her that well, I’m about 90% sure I was supposed to overhear her.

Only ten more days in Downhamshire-on-Kyne, and I still don’t know whether to take the shawl.

I only ask because the drawing room can be a bit drafty, and it was quite cool already today, Eunice says, just barely smiling. In any case, if you’d like one, you need only ask a bit later.

I consider this. I was fine earlier, and there are cocktails being served, so I’m only going to get warmer.

I think I’ll skip it for now, thank you, I tell Eunice, who just nods her head politely and walks away. I can only hope it’s the right answer, though I’ve got a feeling it wasn’t.

I shake my head to clear it a little. I pat my mass of curls, hoping that none have gone rogue since the last time I looked in the mirror, straighten my dress, wish it were an inch longer, and descend the stairs, holding onto the banister carefully.

My God, have you heard the plan to put another ring road ‘round Leeds and bring all the London weekender traffic our way? Lady Catherine, my future mother-in-law is saying. It’ll be frightful. We won’t even be able to visit the house in Saltburn any more, it’ll be overrun with hoodlums and vandals.

I take another sip of my Pimm’s Cup, because I desperately need something to do with my mouth that isn’t disagree with Alistair’s mother.

It’s shocking, says the woman we’re talking to. I could have sworn she was introduced as Lady Wimbledon, and I honestly have no idea if I misheard and confused her with the tennis tournament. Maybe I did, and maybe the tournament is named after her castle. Who knows.

After all, have you been reading about the rise in violence down south?

Her voice drops.

"All those immigrants, coming to the city and they’re not the least bit grateful for what we’ve done for them. No, they’ve got to have our tax money, our healthcare, and all they do is run about stabbing each other..."

I take a gulp of Pimm’s cup, because otherwise I might start asking Lady Wimble-something what great contributions, exactly, she’s made to British society. I’ve got a feeling the main one was ‘be born to the right parents,’ possibly followed up by ‘marry well.’

I’ve joined the Committee for Sensible Infrastructure, Lady Catherine offers. You ought to sign up as well, we’re putting quite a lot of pressure on the council...

I drain my cup. These aren’t nearly as strong as the gin and tonics they were serving before dinner Monday, so I think I can have two before dinner and not cause a scene.

I’m going to get another drink, I tell the two women as soon as there’s a break in the conversation. It was wonderful to meet you.

Lovely to meet you too, my dear, Lady Wimble??? says.

I can’t tell if she sounds insincere because I’m still not quite used to her accent, or if she just sounds insincere. In either case, I skirt the other small clumps of people in the room, heading for the small bar again, where one of the kitchen staff is standing politely, waiting to make more drinks.

Ah! There she is, Alistair’s voice cuts through the low hum of the drawing room. Françoise, sweetheart, come meet my old friend Cyril.

I straighten my back, put a smile on my face, and try not to mourn the emptiness of my glass as I walk toward the two of them.

Alistair and Cyril could be brothers. Hell, they probably are related, given that most of the wealthy, noble families in northern England have been drawing from the same gene pool for the last few hundred years: sandy brown hair, blue eyes, long-ish nose, ruddy complexion.

In other words, they both look really British.

This is my lovely fiancée, Françoise Strauss, Alistair says, putting one hand on my back as I walk up to him. Françoise, darling, this is Lord Cyril Crowley, the man who’ll own half of Newcastle someday.

Cyril smiles, a slight flush creeping across his cheeks, and I wonder how many Pimm’s Cups he’s had.

Please, it’s just Cyril, he says, taking my hand and raising my knuckles to his lips, quickly brushing them. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Strauss. Or should I call you the future Lady Winstead?

The thought of someone seriously calling me Lady Winstead someday nearly makes me laugh out loud.

You can just call me Frankie, I say. Everyone does.

Charming, he says.

Françoise dabbles in costume design, Alistair offers. Perhaps you ought to consult with her over the exhibition?

I bristle instantly. I don’t dabble in costume design, I have a career in costume design, or at least I’m trying like hell. I string together barely-paying jobs and unpaid internships as much as I can, while making sure I take enough hours at my waitressing job to actually pay my bills.

Alistair keeps offering to help me out, but I can’t bring myself to accept. I don’t want to be beholden to him. Not yet, at least.

The thought is just... unpleasant, for reasons I don’t exactly know.

Actually, I’m a working costume designer, I point out, smiling as nicely as I can. I sewed all the sequins onto those corsets for the Broadway production of—

It’s so rare to find someone who actually understands the household arts, Cyril interrupts. Even our housekeeper was at a loss to put an extra button on a shirt that I purchased last week.

I force myself to keep smiling. It’s a challenge.

It’s true, Alistair laughs. I’ll certainly always have my clothes properly mended.

Keep. Smiling.

Your children will have the best Halloween costumes around, Cyril offers. The local school will think you’re an angel sent to their theater department.

I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to keep you busy, Alistair says to me, still laughing.

I give up smiling, because I’m fucking confused, and I just look at Alistair. I can’t tell if he’s serious about this — I’m a costume designer, I’m striving to have a career in costume design, not to mend buttons on his shirts — or if this is that dry British wit people keep telling me is funny. He’s been a little weird ever since we got here, and I’m just not sure why.

I’m sure, I echo, distantly, because I’m not really sure what else to say that won’t start a fight in the middle of his parents’ pre-dinner social engagement. Listen, it’s been lovely, but I’m going to go get another cocktail before dinner—

Oh, darling, you should have said something, Alistair says. Allow me.

For a second I think he’s going to be a gentleman and go get me another drink, but instead he raises one hand and snaps his fingers until he’s got the bartender’s attention, then holds up my empty glass.

My mouth drops open and I wish the earth would swallow me whole, though Cyril seems completely unbothered.

It’s okay, I manage to say weakly. I don’t mind getting it myself.

I can’t believe he just did that. Who does that? You can’t snap your fingers at waitstaff, they’re not trained dogs.

Don’t be silly, he says, nodding once at the bartender, then returning to the conversation. Do you need one as well? he asks Cyril.

I tune the two of them out in the buzz of total mortification, smiling and nodding dumbly until the bartender comes over and hands me another cocktail with a slight bow.

I thank him. Profusely, which all three of them seem to find somewhat amusing, and then I try to be part of the conversation again.

Except they’re now talking about something to do with horses, and I never did get that pony I asked for as a child, so I resign myself to listening quietly.

Dinner is tolerable. I have a polite conversation with Cyril, who I’m seated next to, about the trove of pre-War women's clothes he recently found in a trunk in the basement of his manor house. This time I don’t even eat the garnish on the plate.

All in all, it goes pretty well, but I’m also very glad when it’s over. It’s been three nights here and I already feel like I’ve got cabin fever. Winstead Manor may have fifty rooms, but the place is suffocating.

It feels like there’s always someone just around the next corner, waiting for me to screw up. I’m afraid to fart in an empty hallway, because I just know that the second I do, a very friendly, polite, well-meaning member of the household staff will pop up and spray air freshener on my butt.

I’m American. Sometimes I just want to fart loudly in solitude, you know?

Everyone in the countryside seems to retire early, so by nine p.m., I can excuse myself and head to my own chambers. When I first found out that Alistair and I, despite being engaged, wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom because Lady Catherine deemed it inappropriate, I was a little put off.

But now I’m glad for it. It’s the only place I can be alone. And fart.

The walk from the sitting room, where we convened for after-dinner drinks, back to my rooms, feels like it’s about a mile long, but I’m determined that I’m not taking my shoes off.

Even if no one’s going to see me. Even if it’ll be faster, and better, and everything is carpeted with these over-plush, wildly expensive carpets.

I’m walking past the dining room when I hear Lady Elizabeth’s voice, though I’m not really listening until I hear my name.

"—Telling everyone to call her Frankie," Alistair’s sister is saying, her voice echoing in the big hall.

I stop dead in my tracks, just out of sight. If I wasn’t already eavesdropping, now I am.

It’s a crude Americanism, his mother, Lady Catherine, sighs. Women always wanting what men have, even their names.

Now the problem is my name? My parents started calling me this as when I was a kid. It’s my name.

I nearly asked her to put on another pair of shoes, Elizabeth goes on. I know she’s only got that one other pair and they’re atrocious as well, but I was bowled over when she arrived at dinner in peep toes.

"I’m sure that’s perfectly acceptable in New Jersey, Catherine says disdainfully. Have you seen that television program, with the Italians at the beach who color themselves orange and drink in their bathing suits until they pass out?"

I look down at my shoes, the vintage ones that I paid money I barely have to re-sole and fix up. The ones I really like, the ones I was proud of myself for finding because they’re stylish and classy without being tedious or boring.

I think I might cry.

Hopefully she doesn’t show up tomorrow baring her midriff with some sort of piercing through her belly button, Elizabeth goes on. "Is Alistair really going to marry her?"

Lady Catherine just sighs, and I’ve fucking had it. I need to get out of here: out of this hallway, out of this stupid house, off these stupid grounds. I feel like I’m on one of those hidden camera shows or something, and any moment now someone’s going to pop out from behind a painting and shout, Surprise! The last three years you spent in a relationship with someone were a prank! How does that make you feel?

I stride past the door to the dining room, not caring if they realize I was there, and I stomp all the way to my bedroom, where I throw the dress on the bed and pull on my most torn, comfiest jeans, flats, and a t-shirt.

Vengefully, I wish I’d brought flip-flops, but I didn’t.

Minutes later I’m heading down the back staircase — the servants’ stairs — and out a door into the dark, humid, chilly night.

I feel a little better, but I need to leave. Get off the grounds completely, go where I don’t feel as though I’m constantly being watched and judged by my future in-laws, so I make my way out to the garage. It’s dark, but the door’s unlocked, so I just head in and hit the lights, hoping that the keys will be on hooks or something and I can leave a note.

Problem: the cars are all nice.

Way too nice for me to drive over these one-lane, English countryside roads after dark. I’ve only driven here a handful of times, and the whole ‘on-the-left’ thing is still pretty rough.

Off to one side, a door opens, and I whirl around to see a man standing there, looking slightly surprised.

Can I help you, Miss Strauss? he asks.

Shit. What’s his name?

I was wondering if I could borrow a car, I say tentatively.

Robert. Richard. Rupert?

Borrow a car, Miss?

Yes, I say, not sure how else to explain it.

I’d be more than happy to drive you to your destination if you allow me just a moment to dress properly.

"Well, I don’t really have a destination, I say, winding my fingers together and fiddling with them. I’ve been feeling a little cooped up is all, and I was hoping to borrow a car and sort of... drive to clear my head?"

I don’t want to say get the hell out of here for a little while, because God only knows who Robert/Richard/Rupert will tell, and I don’t need that. I just need to be alone for a little while where no one can find me. Is that crazy?

He narrows his eyes slightly, squinting like he’s trying to understand.

"You want to borrow a car to drive yourself," he says.

Yes! I say, getting a little too excited.

He smiles professionally, like he finally gets it.

Apologies, it’s an unusual request, he says. Does Miss have a preference?

The cheapest one, I say instantly.

He walks to a cabinet, unlocks it, and pulls down a set of keys. I think he’s trying not to laugh at me.

That’ll be the Toyota that Lord George won betting on cricket last year, he says. He says he’s been meaning to sell it, but he’s so charmed by having won it at all that he hasn’t yet.

I don’t even ask who the fuck wins a car betting on cricket, I just follow him to the very back of the hall, where there’s a small black Toyota sedan waiting. A regular car.

It’s perfect.

Thank you so much, I say.

My pleasure, Miss Strauss, the man says, his eyes crinkling around the corners.

I pull out of the garage, down the driveway, to the winding country road that leads here from the nearest village.

Finally, when I’m off Winstead land at last, I feel like I can breathe again.

CHAPTER TWO

LIAM

I’ve got my back turned when off in the corner, there’s a minor crash, a thump, and then a scuffle, and I briefly close my eyes.

"Now you’ve gone and done it, haven’t you?" one voice asks.

What, knocked over a bar table? I’m a right scoundrel, the other answers.

For fuck’s sake, they’re at it again, but it’s nothing new. I hold the second pint glass under the tap and wait for it to fill, listening to Giles and Malcolm fussing at each other like two old hens.

The thing is broken now, Giles is saying. That’s you. First you cock up the church bell so badly God himself couldn’t tell time from it, now you’re wrecking the pub, liable to get us both booted out—

"Oh, do shut up, you pompous arsehole, Malcolm says. You can’t stand that I’ve got this thing right and you’ve got it wrong, so you went all about town changing the clocks just to prove that I’m some sort of imbecile, but it won’t work because I’ve bloody figured it out, you damn fool."

I turn around, a pint of bitter in each hand, and set them dripping on the bar.

Tab? Arthur asks.

Right, I confirm.

You’re completely mad, Giles shouts.

Now I can see them, each one gray-haired, arms crossed, standing on either side of a toppled bar table. There’s a dartboard behind them and the chalkboard shows that apparently, they’ve abandoned a game to have their weekly fight about whether the church bell in the village of Shelton strikes the hour at exactly the right time.

It’s a bloody stupid fight, and I’ve had to hear it for going on six months now. That’s twenty-four times I’ve listened to two old bats going on about a stupid bell, and I’m just about finished with it.

I turn my back to them, wipe my hands on the bar towel, note the two pints on Arthur’s tab.

I’m not mad, you’re mad, Malcolm’s going on. You’re a raving looney if you think that changing the bell’s ring every other week is getting anyone in Shelton to anything on—

I reach below the bar and grab a dart, tossing it once in my hand. Arthur, his pint to his lips, gives me a very serious look and nods once.

"—Time, which is the foremost and only job of a church bell—"

I let it fly, and it lands with a dull thunk in a dartboard about four feet to the left of Malcolm’s head. Thirteen, not a bad score from halfway across the pub.

Malcolm and Giles stop their arguing and both turn to me, pints in hand.

That’ll do, I call.

You could have bloody well killed a man, Giles says, the same thing he says every time I stop their fights this way.

Haven’t yet.

One of these days that thing is going to slip and get one of us right in the temple—

The two of you can either stay here and end your discussion of the sodding church bell or you can go home, I cut him off.

Both men are perfectly stone-faced, an expression I’m well familiar with. I’m fairly sure that Giles’ wife has her bridge club over tonight, and Malcolm’s wife has been on him lately about the state of their roof, so they’re both much happier here.

I tend bar nights at the only pub in a village with less than a thousand people. I know everyone’s business, whether I’m interested or not.

Mostly, I’m not.

You’re a bloody-minded dictator, Giles calls amiably.

You’re a worthless drunk, I call back.

They both set their pints on another table, then work together to right the one they knocked over. Teamwork. Truly fucking beautiful, really.

I turn back to the boring part of my job: wash a few glasses, wipe down the shiny, deep mahogany bar just for good measure, although it’s so dark inside the Hound’s Ears that it hardly matters. The place only has windows on the front, being a brick row building squashed between two other shops directly in the center of Shelton. The ceilings are low, the wood is all dark, the booths and armchairs are all leather, and the whole place feels a bit warren-like.

All properly as it should be.

The bells on the front door sound again and I glance around the place, wondering who’s left. The faster I can clear off their table, the faster I’ll be able to close once eleven o’clock rolls around.

But no one’s