He hums like he’s mulling over my question. “Well, you always make me smile. But it’s also followed by a few close calls to death and some head-banging migraines. But that’s okay; I’m used to them.”
I scoff. “Like I said:immature.”
“Made you smile, though,” he challenges.
“It didn’t.”
It did.
He laughs. “Fuck, I love you,” he says, and warmth creeps up my neck as his words glide over me like invisible silk.
I grin. “I love you.”
“I gotta go check in with Safiya – see if she found something,” he tells me.
“Okay.”
There’s a pause, and then, “We good, right?” he asks – an edge of vulnerability laced into the question.
“We are,” I answer truthfully. “I mean it.”
“Great.” He clears his throat. “I’ll come join you in a few, but until then, if you need anything or if you find something, don’t forget to shoot me a text.”
“Ditto.” I straighten and stretch my upper body a little. “Alright, I’m hanging up. Love you.”
He laughs. “Okay, love you.”
With a smile, I disconnect the call and tuck my phone back inside my clutch, just as approaching footsteps crunch against the grass, setting every nerve in my body on edge.
21.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Says Timothy Byron as he makes his way to me.
He looks completely disheveled, with his hair all mused, his shirt untucked, and his belt buckle unclipped. He’s stumbling more than he’s walking, which means he’s either high or drunk. Or both.
He half-slumps, half-falls next to me on the bench, and when he accidentally pushes me a little, he curses, then mutters an apology to me. Dorran was right about the smell of weed and sex becauseChrist, this guy stinks of a drug-house.
I realize that my shoulders are stiff, and my back is arched. So, in order to appear unaffected by his sudden presence, I relax my posture and tighten my hold on my clutch. If I hadn’t hung up on Dorran already, I could have told him about having found our target. But said target is sitting too close to me right now for me to pull out my phone and send a text to the crew, let alone call one of them.
Timothy bends and looks closely at me, making me face him. His glassy eyes narrow, and his features scrunch up as he continues to study me, and then, as if a switch has been turned on in his hazy brain, he sits up straight and gives me a lopsided grin.
“You’re the chick from YouTube!” he announces as if he’s made the most ground-shattering discovery. But also,chick,seriously? I don’t know what it is about that term that grates at me, but it does. So fucking much.
My lips wobble as I decide whether to smile at him or to stay indifferent. It’s hard to think in the moment because he’s sitting way too close to me, and his breath is so rancid that I just might start tearing up any second.
“You are, aren’t you?” he pushes, then studies me again. “Yeah, itisyou. The hair is a dead giveaway.” He seems so satisfied with himself that it’s almost funny to watch.
I say nothing, then press one of my hands on the bench’s edge. Lifting my ass a little, I shift away from him, but I only get so far before he starts talking again.
“You must be pretty popular if Aras invited you to the gala. He loves hosting famous people; it’s always been a thing for him.”
“He’s a…” I clear my throat when my voice comes out scratchy. “He’s a friend.”
“She speaks!” Timothy exclaims, then moves closer to me still, ruining my feeble attempt at maintaining a distance from him.
Fuck. I shouldnothave opened my mouth.
When I don’t respond to him, he sighs and looks straight ahead. He keeps rocking back and forth, and with the sense of his constant presence next to me, I can’t help but think: it’s going to have to be me.
