“Right,” Chet says. “Well, good luck with… that.”
He turns back to me. “Anyway, Liv, if you ever get tired of... all this,” he waves a hand at Kursk, “you know where to find me.”
“Yeah,” I reply, “somewhere between gym class and your own reflection.”
He laughs. But it’s tight. Forced.
Then he walks away.
Kursk waits until he’s out of earshot before growling, “That man is a dung-hearted fool.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, still gripping the protein tub like a shield. “He’s also my ex.”
“You have terrible taste in mates.”
“Tell me about it.”
He looks at me for a moment. “But you have better taste now.”
I snort. “Don’t push your luck, Orcy Balboa.”
He grins, sharp and dangerous. “You liked it when I kissed you.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You pressed back.”
“Reflex.”
“You tasted of cinnamon.”
“Iwillmace you.”
He tilts his head. “What is this mace? Is it stronger than the fire weapon you sprayed me with?”
“It’s pepper spray, and no. But it’ll make you cry like a baby on jalapeño day.”
He laughs.
Loud.
Startling a nearby shopper into dropping a jar of pickles.
I realize I’m smiling, too.
It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion—and I’m the idiot in the passenger seat, yelling at the driver to hit the brakes even as the tree gets closer.
We’re at Marla’s Diner. Cozy booths. Laminated menus that haven’t changed since Reagan. Greasy air thick with the scent of bacon fat and burnt coffee. The kind of place where people order “the usual,” and if you ask for oat milk, they ask if you’ve been dropped on your head.
Kursk doesn’t fit here. Not even a little. He takes up the whole booth by himself, looking like a Calvin Klein model got possessed by a Viking. Shirtless still—because “the cloth itches like dead bark,” apparently—his illusion magic makes himlookhuman to everyone else, but it doesnothingabout his aura. The sheerpresenceof him turns heads, straightens spines. People instinctively make way when he walks past.
And of course, Chet shows up.
Again.
Like some smug specter conjured by my worst decisions.
He saunters over with that permanent smirk, high school varsity ring glinting, and a stupid frappuccino in hand.
