“Okay?” I say, quiet.
“More,” she says, and I give it.
She lets out a bloodcurdling groan, something that buries deep into my marrow, when she comes. She tugs lightly at my ponytail. My stomach drops in the good way. I chase the feeling and pull back just enough to run my mouth along the edge of her jaw, behind her ear, down to where her pulse is too obvious to ignore. I don’t leave a mark. I don’t need to. She arches into it anyway and makes a new sound I’m going to remember later when the day tries to get loud.
“Houston,” she says, more breath than voice.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Not planning to.”
So I don’t. I go back to her mouth and kiss her like I have answers and they’re all in the way our mouths fit. We wind tighter. The room disappears. My heart moves from a steady line into a syncopation I know I can play without dropping it. She shatters on my fingers again, shaking in my arms. I’d hold her all day?—
A key turns in the front door.
We freeze.
A cart squeaks across tile. A whistled tune. Footsteps. The janitor.
Lou’s eyes go wide, then bright with mischief. I put a finger to my lips, and she shakes with a silent laugh against my chest. I back us off the wall, grab her hand, and we move fast and quiet to the side door like teenagers who know which stair doesn’t creak.
We make it into the hall and out the back exit without proof that we were ever there. The door closes with a soft click, and we stand in the bright morning like we committed a victimless crime.
She leans into me and laughs for real. “You called it.”
“We’ll finish what we started later. If you want.”
“Yeah. You better.”
8
SALEM
I know he’s a bastard,so I go to his hotel, text Houston that I’ll pick up her things instead. She shouldn’t have to deal with our brother. Not today.
Uber, not the bike. I don’t want a scene in the valet. I don’t want my plates in gossip site B-roll. I ping a ride, grab a hoodie and a cap, and head down.
The driver pulls up. Mid-thirties, clean car, curious eyes in the mirror. I slide in back.
“Short hop. Meter running. Wait for me when we get there. I’ll tip heavy.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen,” I lie. “Twenty if he’s mouthy.”
He laughs like he thinks I’m joking. “I’ll wait.”
We roll off the circle and onto the boulevard. Saturday, late morning, the heat is already up. The Strip is quieter than it pretends, like it’s catching its breath after last night. I know the feeling.
I check my phone. No new fires. Two texts from Knox—You good?andDon’t stab him.
I text backGoodandNo promises.
We turn into Troy’s hotel. Paparazzi swarm the front like flies on a dropped drink. Long lenses, stupid questions shouted at the glass, all energy and no aim. They don’t see me. Cap down, hoodie up, back seat. I tap the driver’s shoulder. “Around back. Service lane.”
He nods and cuts left. Loading dock. Employee parking. Concrete heat. A security kiosk with a bored guard and a clipboard.
