His phone starts buzzing against the tabletop. I hear him frown and then the soft exhale as he reads whatever’s on the screen.
Just like that, the spell breaks.
“It’s Frank,” he says, all traces of that dangerous softness now completely gone. “Meeting’s confirmed.”
“Right,” I say with a gulp. “That’s good.”
“We need to go,” Bastian says as he slides out of the booth. I hear dollar bills hitting the table, thethwapof what sounds like way too many twenties for toast and rice. The waitress is going to think we’re either drug dealers or terrible at math. Given the circumstances, she wouldn’t be entirely wrong on either count.
I grab Excalibur and follow Bastian out. The diner noise fades as the door swings shut behind us. The morning air hits my face, carrying exhaust fumes and the promise of another scorching day.
“Here.” He offers his arm.
I pause, weighing my options. My dignity says to use my walking stick and navigate solo. But my pragmatism says to take the help.
So, after a beat, I loop my hand through his elbow. His forearm is solid and warm under my palm.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I mumble as we start to walk.
“I know.”
“And when this is over?—”
“I disappear. Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”
17
ELIANA
render /'rend?r/: verb
1: to melt fat from meat over low heat.
2: stripping a coward down to his sins and making him watch the grease pool at his feet.
Saints & Skinners announces itself from two blocks away with bass frequencies so low they shake the car’s windows. It’s like we’re hermit crabs that chose a subwoofer for a shell. Even through the car’s soundproofing, I can feel every thump in the marrow of my bones.
“Frank really knows how to pick ‘em,” I mumble.
Bastian pulls into what I assume is the back lot, based on how the car careens over moon-crater-sized potholes. The suspension whines in protest before he kills the engine. Thewub-a-wub-a-wubof the bass continues, though, much to my dismay.
“There’s a bouncer at the door,” Bastian notes as we sit in the cooling vehicle. “Big motherfucker. Looks like he ate another bouncer for breakfast.”
I crack my window. Between pulses of music, I hear the braying voices of drunk, rowdy men.
“Alright. Let’s go. Stay close,” Bastian murmurs. The instruction is a little unnecessary. I’m not exactly about to wander off solo in a place like this.
Inside, the assault on my senses intensifies. Cloying baby powder mingles with copious cigarette smoke and what has to be an entire shelf’s worth of knockoff Drakkar Noir. Underneath it all lurks the sticky-sweet reek of spilled Jägermeister.
No one in here has ever heard of the word “cliché,” apparently.
The music keeps reverberating through my skeleton. It’s Megan Thee Stallion at maximum volume. Every suburban mother within a ten-mile radius is probably clutching their pearls and/or secretly adding it to their Zumba playlist.
Bastian’s hand goes to its old home on the small of my back. I huddle close to him as we venture further inward.
“Booth in the corner,” Bastian says against my ear. “Frank’s already there. And?—”
“And what?”
