Chapter 4: Fixed

POV: Jane

Dan doesn't move.

He just stands there in the doorway, rain still dripping off his leather vest while my cracked burner phone dangles from two fingers like a grenade he hasn’t quite decided to pin. His eyes; too bright, too sharp, and way too chaotic; drag from the device to my face.

“Yours?” he asks.

My stomach bottoms out, dropping straight through the floor. “No.”

He grins. “Wrong answer.”

“Blaze,” Dwight’s voice rumbles from behind me, heavy as a landslide. “Sit down. Shut up. Fix it.”

Dan slides into the booth across from me, moving with a grace that suggests gravity is more of a suggestion than a law for him. He tosses the phone onto the scarred table. The cracked screen catches the flickering neon light, a loading wheel spinning in stubborn, frozen circles.

“Most people would’ve just bought a new one,” he says, fishing a tiny precision screwdriver from his vest pocket. “But you? You can’t risk walking into another store, can you?”

My tongue glues itself to the roof of my mouth.

“Triple-encrypted, prepaid burner.” He turns the device over in his grease-stained hands. “And a gas station special at that. I expected better from someone with eyes as sharp as yours.”

“It’s just a phone.”

“It’s a lifeline,” he corrects. “And right now, the motherboard is fried. You power this up, it shorts out and wipes every little secret hiding in the flash memory.”

Ice-water floods my veins. He’s right. If that phone dies, the digital breadcrumbs I left to throw Stephen off my scent go dark. I’d be blind. Completely, utterly blind.

“I can fix it,” Dan says, his voice losing its playful edge for a fraction of a second. “Free of charge.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Didn’t say you needed it. Said I’m offering.” He tilts his head, and that unhinged grin returns, sharp enough to draw blood. “No strings attached.”

There are always strings.

Before I can even breathe a response, Ryan is there, sliding into the seat beside me. He doesn't make a sound. One second the seat is empty, the next his shoulder is pressing into mine, the cold leather of his jacket snagging against my hoodie. I go rigid.

Then Dwight’s massive frame settles in behind me, one tattooed arm dropping across the backrest. He isn't touching me, but he’s there; a wall of heat and muscle blocking the only way out.

Three men. One booth. Zero oxygen.

“You guys always do this?” I ask. I hate how thin my voice sounds, like it’s about to snap. “Corner strangers?”

Dwight’s storm-gray eyes drop to the bruise blooming along my jaw. “Only the interesting ones.”

“I’m not interesting.” I stare at my coffee. It’s cold now. Just like my fingers. “I’m boring. Seriously boring.”

Dan bursts out laughing; a loud, genuine sound that is completely inappropriate for the tension strangling the room. “There she is.”

“There who is?”

“The girl who lies with a completely straight face.” He doesn’t look up from the circuitry, his fingers already popping the back cover off. Tiny screws appear between his fingers like a sleight-of-hand trick; he’s done this a thousand times in the dark. “Knew you had some bite.”

“My name is Jane,” I say, trying to reclaim some ground. “And you don't know me.”

“Dan Reschenthaler.” He says it like I’d asked. “Friends call me Blaze.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Yet.”

Ryan hasn’t spoken. He just watches me with those winter-pale eyes, still and lethal as a loaded rifle. It’s worse than Dwight’s open aggression. At least aggression I can map. Ryan is a locked room, and I can feel him reading something behind my pupils that no one else can see.

“You’re wondering if we’re going to hurt you,” Ryan says quietly.

The question lands like a blade on the table.

I swallow hard. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“And what did you decide?”

I turn to face him. Bad idea. His eyes are inches away, and they see everything… the fear, the exhaustion, and that shameful flicker of something else I’m trying to bury alive.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile; it's something darker. “Good. Means you’re smarter than you look.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“An observation.”

Dan’s screwdriver hitches. His eyes flick to my jaw, and for a heartbeat, the manic energy just evaporates. What’s left is cold. Focused. Dangerous.

“Who gave you the bruise?” he asks.

“I tripped.”

“Try again.”

“It doesn’t matter.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I could scream. Don't break. Not here. Not in front of them. “It’s handled. It’s fine.”

Silence crashes into the booth.

Dwight’s jaw locks. Ryan’s gaze sharpens. Dan stares at me with an expression that makes my pulse stutter.

“It matters,” Dan says. Soft. Final.

Then he snaps the casing back together with a decisive click, taps the power button, and holds up the phone. The screen is bright. Clean. No loading wheel.

I blink, stunned. “That fast?”

He looks genuinely offended. “Sweetheart, I don’t just fix things. I do magic.” He slides it across the table, his grease-stained fingers brushing mine. A spark fires straight up my arm. He feels it; I know he does; because his grin turns slow and satisfied. “Your little lifeline is completely untraceable now. No towers pinging unless I want them to. I didn’t just fix it. I made it invisible.”

I snatch the phone and shove it into my bag. My hands are shaking, and I have to press them flat against the canvas to hide it.

“Thank you,” I say, the words rushing out. “Seriously. But I should go. I need to find a motel.”

The temperature in the booth shifts instantly. Every molecule of air goes still.

Ryan straightens. Dan’s tools vanish back into his vest with a sharp metallic click. Dwight’s cheek muscle ticks.

I slide toward the edge of the seat. One leg out. Both feet hit the floor. I take one step. Then another.

On the third, Dwight moves.

He doesn't grab me. He doesn't need to. He just slams his palm flat against the backrest beside my shoulder, and suddenly he’s everywhere; blocking the aisle, filling my vision, radiating heat like a furnace.

My heart slams against my ribs. Every nerve ending is screaming. Slowly, like I’m defusing a bomb, I turn my head.

He’s right there. Too close. His jaw is set, his eyes locking onto mine with a grip that bypasses my brain and squeezes something much lower. Then he leans down.

The world shrinks to the five inches between his mouth and my ear. His breath is hot, deliberate, and every hair on my neck stands on end.

“You can stop planning your escape, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

A sickening chill crawls through my marrow.

“You ain’t leaving this town.”