She slugs back her shot. Dignity demands that he do the same.
“Holy Jesus Christ,” he says, and then some more religious curses in Spanish as he sits down abruptly in the nearest chair. He puts a hand to his mouth.
Nomi grins. “It’s disgusting, but it wakes you up.”
No, it’s just disgusting. The back of his throat is burning. There’s an herbal taste. His cheeks are no longer numb.
Nomi snorts at his facial expression. “You look like a cat that drank sour milk.”
He hands back the glass, shuddering. “Don’t give that to me ever again.”
“You feel better, though, right? You’ve got color. Where are your clothes?” She spots the black suit suspended on a hanger from a wall hook near the door, walks over to inspect it. “Wow, okay. Where did you get this?”
“I can’t remember.” He still has an acerbic tang in his throat. “A thrift store.”
She’s shaking her head, side-eyeing him. “You’re unbelievable. This is Saint Laurent, you dork. How do you find this stuff? Okay, and here’s your shoes.”
She brings everything over and lays it on the bed where he was passed out in agony barely an hour ago. He has serious reservations about this plan. “Nomi, listen—”
“It’ll be all right.” She returns to where he’s sitting, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, I believe in you.”
He removes his sunglasses, grasps her forearm. There’s an electric prickle of static from the contact and a fascinating light show where their auras intermingle. He tears his eyes away; he needs to concentrate to explain this in a way that will make sense. “Listen, you shouldknow. I get loopy when I have a migraine. I’m sensitive to noise and light, I’m bad tempered, I’m—” He drags his memory for Flores’s term—“dysregulated.”
“Noone,” she says firmly, “I don’t mean to be insensitive, or unsympathetic, or whatever—I’m sorry to haul you along on this escapade if you’re in pain. But dysregulated or not, I really need your help tonight.”
He wets his lips; his mouth tastes like he’s been chewing aspirin. Because he wants to keep touching Nomi, he releases her. “Okay, fine. I’ll get dressed and meet you downstairs.”
Nomi has already started backing for the door. “Twenty minutes.”
So that’s it. Christ, this is such a bad idea.
Simon strips off his robe, gets dressed. In the full-length mirror behind the door, he looks acceptable. But his skin is sensitive to everything: the black trousers cinched at his waist, the snakeskin fabric of the black shirt, the blue tie tight at his neck, the weight of the black jacket. He shoves his feet into Chelsea boots, collects cigarettes, cash, sunglasses. Dry swallows two more Vicodin. Scrapes back his damp hair, closes the apartment door, goes downstairs.
Sofia Rosa is standing with Nomi in the lobby area near the mailboxes—she has a pale gray aura that feels friendly. Nomi is surrounded by an electric purple haze, her energy humming. She’s wearing her oversize leather jacket and no pants—wait, she must have a dress underneath the jacket. If there’s a dress, it must be astonishingly short. Chunky black boots are buckled high on her white legs. She’s twisted silver rings into one decorative braid around her side cut and covered the worst of her facial bruising with makeup. Both she and Sofia Rosa are assessing his outfit as he descends the stairs.
“This is a nice suit. Very handsome.” His landlady is smiling approvingly and holding up a small brown bottle. “And you see? No-mee gives me a lovely gift!”
“Congratulations.” God, he’s really going to have to keep his bad humor in check.
“Yes, very good. You will have a good evening, I think.” Sofia Rosa wafts toward her own apartment. “Now I go watchMatlockand drink this.”
“See you tomorrow, Sofia.” Nomi turns back, grabs his lapel and pulls him closer to her level. Her eyes are smoky with kohl, and her mouth is glossy pale; she has a thin silver ring in one side of her bottom lip. “Okay, first of all, ditch the tie. And while we’re at it ...”
She yanks his blue tie off, stuffs it into her pocket. Then she starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to a club, not a job interview. Here ...” Digging in her other pocket, she comes out with a black leather cord, reaches up to sling it around his neck. She fastens it with a loop in front. “You’re too tall. And how are you so lean?”
Her fast, clever fingers in close proximity to his bare chest are doing strange things to his brain. “You’re aware that I’m not twelve. I can dress myself.”
“You’re aware that you have no birth certificate, so there’s no way of knowing how old you are.”
“You have a lip piercing.”
“It’s a fakey.” She pushes the ring sideways with her tongue to demonstrate.
“But the one in your left ear is new.”
