*
At the corner of Thirtieth and Madison, Ripper and Hannah peel off the side of a building, emerging from a shadowed alley. Hannah’s wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses that cover half her face. Ripper’s in his faux-tuxedo T-shirt and sunglasses as large as Hannah’s. Their outfits, plus Kenny’s button-up . . . this is the Saints’ version of dressing up. I’m immediately on high alert.
“The flowers are a nice touch, Ken,” Hannah says, in lieu of a greeting.
“Were you just hiding in the shadows?” I ask. “Somebody please tell me what’s going on.”
“We obviously can’t be seen together,” Ripper says, as if I’m the slowest boy in class. “The paparazzi will be all over us.” He scratches his bicep, and I realize it’s wrapped in gauze that looks suspiciously like—
“Did you get atattoolast night?”
Rip looks down at his arm. “Looks like it.”
“Of what?”
He smiles. “I’m excited to find out.”
Hannah waves at us to keep walking. “Cool your jets, Suit. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Well, at least she, too, is alive and still talking to me after last night. I stuff my hands in my pockets and fall into step with her. “So. How was the rest of your night?”
“A shit show.” She taps her bucket hat. “The paparazzi went crazy once they saw this. Getting out of the restaurant was a nightmare.”
I keep my eyes locked on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get those guys to back off. Roger never should’ve brought you into it, Andy never should’ve put that buzzer in your hand, and I should’ve done more—”
She cuts me off. “You think me shaving my head was your fault?”
“I’m your manager. It’s my job to protect you. Even from your friends.”
She’s silent for a moment as we walk side by side. Then she says, “You didn’t have to leave the party in protest.”
“I did, actually.” I glance at her. “You didn’t have to stay.”
I turn my attention to Ripper and Kenny. “And I still don’t understand how any of you are upright.”
“Truthfully, I expect we’re all still a little bit drunk,” Kenny says, and Ripper nods.
Before I can react to that, someone shouts, “Hannah!” and we all turn to find a man standing at the corner, a telltale camera in his hand.
“Shit,” Ripper groans. “They’re everywhere.”
The man calls to someone and starts racing in our direction. A few seconds later, another guy with a camera rounds the corner.
“And they’re multiplying like zombies,” Kenny says. “Remember our nice Vegas paparazzo? He would never do this.”
“Time to hustle,” I mutter, and the four of us start speedwalking.
“Hannah, take off the hat!” the first man shouts. “Let’s see the hair! Did you shave it in protest of toxic beauty standards? The Catholic Church?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “This man thinks I’m Sinead O’Connor.”
“Is it true you’re having a mental breakdown?” the other man calls.
Ripper flips him off. The photographer snaps a mile a minute.
“Thank god we’re here,” Hannah says, and stops in front of a stately brick building with a gold plaque that reads “The Brunswick Hotel.” Security guards in black suits stand on either side of the revolving door. Through the glass, I see a peek of a beautiful cream and blush lobby.
Kenny shoves me forward. “Fast, dude. The zombies are coming.”
