Houston snorts. Knox hides a smile in his glass.
“You look good,” she says, straightforward. “All of you do.”
“And you look like you eat hearts,” I tell her.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is when I say it.”
Houston shakes out his shoulders. Knox checks the time. We are one drink from leaving. I feel the street pulling on the seams of the night.
Knox leans his hip into the bar, eyes on Lou, tone easy. “You worried Troy brought home more than photos from Ibiza?”
The air tightens one notch. Responsible. Necessary. I appreciate him for it, even when it cuts the mood.
Lou blinks, doesn’t look away. “You mean an STI.”
He nods once. No flinch.
She takes a breath and sets the glass down like it’s a piece of evidence, and she’s done with it. “We haven’t…since Tokyo.” She stares at a spot on the table. “FakeTokyo. He’s been pulling away for months. The more the songs died, the more he did.”
My jaw wants to click. I swallow it. Houston doesn’t move, but a line draws straight down his back. Knox’s mouth goes thin and kind at the same time.
“Troy was bad at a lot of things. Honesty. Being a boyfriend. Kissing…” She huffs a breath that might be a laugh.
“He wasn’t great at songwriting either,” I say, because if we’re going to say it, let’s say it. “Houston writes most of our songs. Always has. Troy never got the hang of grinding a hook until it stops squeaking. He wanted the chorus to show up already dressed.”
Houston tries to wave it off. It’s true. No point pretending otherwise.
“I write sometimes,” I add, because modesty isn’t in my kit. “Knox does, when he thinks we aren’t looking. Troy was good at being loud. That’s about it.”
Lou looks at Houston like she’s suddenly hearing harmony lines she didn’t know to listen for. “You write them.”
He nods. That’s all. He never sells himself hard. It’s why I do it for him when I feel like it.
“I could write one about you,” I say to her. “Tonight.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “About what?”
“Your mouth.” I let it hang there, clean, no smile to ruin it. “If I knew what you tasted like.”
Houston’s mouth curves. Knox pretends to examine the bottle for flaws it doesn’t have. Lou cuts her eyes at me and then at Houston, testing for static or sparks. He’s amused. I’m wired. We’re fine.
“You’d write a song about me if I kissed you?” she asks, a little tipsy, a little giddy, the good kind that makes brave decisions feel like choices, not dares.
I nod.
She stands, closes the space, and kisses me.
5
LOU
I’m kissing Salem Turner.
That’s the whole headline. Mezcal and lime and heat, his mouth confident, mine greedy. The rough edge of his salt-and-pepper goatee skims my chin. His hand is warm at my jaw. He tastes like trouble.
A few hours ago, I rode a motorcycle for the first time. Now I’m here, in a dress some concierge guessed right about, making out with Salem Freaking Turner like I’ve been doing this my whole life. He kisses better than Troy. Better than anyone I’ve kissed. No contest.
