“She’s too scared to talk much. But she gave me this.” In Noone’s palm, the unfolded white napkin with the wordsDaniel Sullivan—Sully—Photoswritten in Sharpie.
Nomi examines the napkin. “Score two for Janice. That girl is not a dummy.”
“Apparently ‘Sully’ is a freelance photographer and journalist.”
“Ricki was talking to a journalist? No wonder Lamonte was pissed.” Nomi takes another sip of the cocktail, twists in place to see if Lamonte and his goons are still around. Too many bodies in the way. “No phone number for this Sully guy?”
Noone scrapes her hair away from her nape. His voice rumbles right against her earlobe. “You’ll like this—he’s over by the DJ.”
“You’re kidding. Has he got a death wish?”
“He’s got security.” Noone steadies her with one firm hand on her thigh, his thumb stroking gently near the groove of her crotch. “So did I do good?”
“You did very good.”
“I told you I’m persuasive.” Now his nose is sunk against her neck, his breath tickling the sensitive spot behind her ear. The hard ridge of his erection pokes against her butt.
“Noone . . .”
“Hm?” He’s preoccupied.
“Noone.” Nomi turns in his lap until their faces are aligned. “You look fucking amazing in that suit, but I think you might be getting a little dysregulated.” She returns his drink. “Here, you finish this. Fix your pants. I’m gonna go look for the photographer.”
She climbs off him and walks away.
Chapter Fifteen
September 1987, Tuesday
For a moment, Simon’s not sure how to react.
In close quarters, her ass pressed against him, Nomi’s presence was overwhelming. She smelled salty like the ocean, loamy like coupling. Purple stars billowed off her in dark waves. Her skin was slippery with the damp heat of the club, tattoos swirling.
Even departing, she looks regal, mink-sleek in her silky dress, hair swaying. He wants to exult, wants to cheer. Wants to lunge forward and cover her with his body. Wants to wrap his hand around her delicious throat and squeeze.
Except this isn’t why you’re here. You’re here to provide her with backup.
Right. He clenches a fist, makes a monumental effort to reassert control. Temples thumping, he puts down his glass and stands, tracking Nomi as she walks through a crush of people with their arms raised. The landscape of the club is watery, undulating, shifting in his vision, the heavy beat of the music blending from one track to the next. Colors are a neon riot. People dance, their bodies swaying and jerking like they’re on hooks at Gennaro’s.
Simon presses his thumb against the cut on his left arm to clear his head, works to pull himself together and follow Nomi’s path. Shaking off the sensations in his own body is difficult. He’s throbbing every time he looks at her. He needs to slap himself. Clearly, if nothing else, tonighthas established that combining the postdromal effects of a migraine with meds, alcohol, and the sensory overwhelm of a nightclub is a phenomenally bad idea. Got it.
Nomi has reached the DJ station, a short dais to the left of the first bar. At least three men are standing, bobbing, at large turntable setups, banks of machines behind. One of the men is wearing green running shorts and long white socks and white running shoes and nothing else. All of them are wearing headphones.
Around them, another guy circles, holding a large and extremely expensive-looking camera up to his eye. He’s white, maybe early thirties, a little schlubby in a maroon plaid shirt and jeans, with a ginger mop of hair—Daniel Sullivan, Sully. Close by, a stony-faced Black man in coveralls, the approximate size and shape of a house.
Nomi is already chatting with Sullivan, who smiles and raises his camera to take a few shots of her. Simon wants to detach Sullivan’s head at the neck, marshals himself as he comes alongside. Nomi doesn’t introduce him—Simon’s learned, from the visit to Hector’s Café, that you don’t introduce your security—but continues the conversation she’s already started with Sullivan, yelling a little to be heard.
“... hoping I could ask you about it?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Sullivan cocks a grin at her. “We could go to my place and talk over a drink, if you want. I’m pretty close by.”
Simon thinks someone should be giving him some sort of prize for being civilized right now.
“I’dloveto,” Nomi gushes, “but I’m here with friends. Can we maybe go talk outside the door? It’s freaking loud in here.”
“Absolutely,” Sullivan yells back. “Just lemme grab my man Max.”
He steps aside to talk with his security; Nomi leans toward Simon. It’s all he can do to stop himself from grabbing her by the scruff and rubbing his lips against her neck, but he settles for inclining his head so he can hear her.
