Grace for Drowning

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?"