“What do you do when you’re not working?”
She blinks like she has to replay the question. “Work is most of it. Or, it was.”
“On purpose or by accident?”
“Both.” She takes a breath, lets it out. “I used to draw for me. Then I started drawing for other people. Then I started drawing for him. Somewhere in there, I forgot that drawing for me was allowed.”
“Start small. Lines. Boxes. Shapes.”
She gives me a look like she’s not sure if I’m joking. “You draw?”
I tap the bar. “I build. Same rules. You don’t start with the roof.”
She thinks about that and decides it’s not a line. “What do you build?”
“Sets. Schedules. The deck around my beach bungalow. Whatever needs building.”
She glances around, soaking in the quiet. “Thanks for this.”
“The drink?”
“The way you ask questions.”
I nod. “You’re kind of our date tonight. I want you to have a good time.”
A breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Kind of.”
“Kind of.”
She slides off the arm of the couch and sits properly, like she’s telling herself to stay. “I won’t be a problem.”
“You don’t have to be anything. Just yourself.”
Her eyes flick to my face and away. I’m not sure what that means for her.
Salem’s door opens. He steps out in all black, glam-goth if you squint, metal at his ears, sharp line at his jaw, boots he can run in. He looks like he’s about to lead a band into a bad idea and laugh about it when the lights come up. He throws his arms wide. “Ready?”
Lou looks, takes him in, doesn’t hide that she likes what she sees. Salem notices the noticing. That can only mean one thing.
Trouble.
He grins at me over her shoulder, a signal and a dare. I don’t blink. I check the time, the keys, the plan. I move the water bottle closer to Lou’s hand and take my spot by the door.
It’s gonna be a long night.
4
SALEM
Houston hasher laughing when I come out. Not loud, not wild—just that soft sound people make when they remember their throat isn’t only for holding back. He’s got a coupe in front of her and water next to it, because he’s Houston, always thinking about other people.
“Somebody’s ahead of me,” I say, sliding to the bar.
Lou looks over. The dress Knox had sent up fits like it was waiting in a box with her name on it. Stone-cold killer. Simple lines, smart neckline, black and clingy in a way that says yes to walking and whatever comes after.
“I need a cocktail if I’m going to catch up to your blood alcohol level,” I tell her. “Houston’s a bad influence.”
“He’s a good influence,” she says, smiling into the rim.
