It’s ice-cold, limp in mine.
I squeeze his fingers, interlacing them to anchor him.
“And you are going inside.”
He looks at me, confused, uncomprehending.
“I tried paying him. I tried threatening him. I—”
I straighten, flip up the collar of my coat, lift my chin.
“Did you forget who I am, Becker?”
I tug him gently, pulling him out of his frozen panic.
“I’m the owner of Cupid’s Agency. I plan the most exclusive events in three counties. I know the owners of this club. I matched that bouncer’s cousin last year and he still owes me a favor.”
I meet his eyes.
Ground him.
Promise him.
“Let’s go get her.”
45
Strobe Lights & Lifelines
Cohen
Her hand is in mine.
It’s the only thing I can actually feel.
Everything else is an assault on the senses:
the music rattling my ribcage,
purple strobe lights slicing through the dark like blades,
the cloying mix of alcohol and synthetic perfume.
But Sloane’s hand is solid.
Warm.
Steady.
I’m letting her pull me along like a kid—or like a drowning man who’s just found driftwood in the middle of the ocean.
I watch her from behind as she cuts through the crowd.
Her coat swings with every determined step, her snow boots thud confidently across the sticky floor, her spine a straight, unwavering line.
She’s incredible.
She’s powerful.
