"Elena's got the best gumbo in the Quarter.She'll feed you."He leans against the counter, cup halfway to his mouth."You'll be fine."
"And you?"
His jaw tightens."Ortega.Full tourist experience."The way he says it makes it clear there's nothing tourist about it."Bourbon Street.Couple clubs.Larry Flynt's."
I set my cup down."Strip club before lunch.Classy."
"He requested me specifically."His voice is flat.
"I bet he did."The words come out sharper than I intend."How long?"
"However long it takes to keep him happy."He drains half his coffee."Could be all day."
Something twists in my chest.I know it's the job.Know he doesn't have a choice.But the thought of him spending twelve hours in clubs where women?—
"Sounds like a great time," I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
He looks at me over the rim of his cup."You jealous?"
"Should I be?"
"It's work, Adena."
"I know."And I do know, but that doesn't stop the feeling sitting heavy in my stomach."Doesn't mean I like it."
Something shifts in his expression."I don't either.I’d rather be eating gumbo with you."
The honesty catches me off guard, especially when everything we’re saying is being dissected.
We stare at each other across the kitchen.The silence stretches—loaded with everything we're not saying about last night.The air feels thick, electrified, like the static before a lightning strike.
Finally, he breaks the tension."I'll pick you up when I'm done with Ortega.We can take the bikes out."
It's an olive branch, a peace offering, an acknowledgment that we both need an hour or two where we're not performing for anyone.
He holds my gaze for a beat, then disappears back into the bedroom.
I drain the rest of my coffee and stand.Twenty minutes until Paco shows up means I need to move.
The bathroom is tiny—barely room for one person, let alone two trying to get ready at the same time.I grab my toothbrush and the Bible I left on the counter last night, flip it open to Psalms while I brush.
The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?
The words blur slightly as I read, brush moving mechanically.
The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?
I hear Jagger moving around in the bedroom.Drawers opening.The closet door.He’s putting on the armor of the man I hate.
When the wicked advance against me to devour me, it is my enemies and my foes who will stumble and fall.
The bathroom door opens, and he walks in—shirt half-buttoned, looking for something.
I step sideways to give him room, but he moves the same direction.
We collide, and for a second we're too close, the Bible pressed between us the only thing separating my heart from his.
"Your bathroom isn’t much bigger," he mutters.
