Not Nico. I know where he is now, some new awareness that tells me he's ten feet to my left without looking. Not staff. Something else. Someone else.
The sensation crawls over my skin like ice water, raising goosebumps despite Miami's oppressive heat. This is familiar. The same feeling from when I was eighteen, right before I found Gabriel with her body. My body remembers danger even when my mind pretends to forget.
I scan the empty tables, the shadows between booths. Nothing. Just my imagination running wild again, paranoia from too many substances leaving my system at once.
But the feeling persists. That crawling sensation of being studied, hunted.
My skin prickles, and I look up at the Calypso Room door again. Closed, like always. Sealed for eight years.
Still, the sensation of being watched inhabits my body.
"I want to go home."
The words come out sharper than intended. I'm standing abruptly, the piano bench scraping against the floor. Nico materializes beside me, reading the shift in my energy.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm tired."
He studies my face, and I know he doesn't believe me. But he doesn't push. "Okay. Let's go."
The car ride is silent at first. I stare out the window at Miami blazing by, all sunshine and possibility that feels suddenly false. My skin still crawls with that feeling of invisible eyes.
He shifts in his seat, and his thigh brushes mine. The contact is brief, accidental, but heat pools low in my belly anyway. I press my legs together and stare harder out the window.
"You were good today."
I turn, certain I've misheard. "What?"
"The meetings. The staff. You know what you're doing."
A compliment. From the storm cloud. I don't know what to do with it.
"I own the place. I should know what I'm doing."
"Owning something and understanding it aren't the same thing."
The words sit between us while I process. He's right, of course. Plenty of people inherit things they don't understand,can't handle. But I know every inch of La Sirena, every employee's name, every vendor's margin.
"Are you feeling okay?" I aim for levity but miss. "Do you have a fever? Should I call a doctor?"
"I'm capable of observation."
"Observation that isn't criticism? That's definitely a symptom of something."
His mouth does that almost-twitch thing again. Then his voice drops, gentle but insistent: "Something spooked you. In the club. Before you wanted to leave."
I try deflection. "I told you. Tired."
"You were pale. Different than this morning. Not chemicals wearing off. Fear."
"How can you possibly…"
"I've seen fear. I know what it looks like."
He's not going to let this go. And maybe that's what Rule Four was about. Telling him when something feels wrong, even when I don't trust my own instincts anymore.
"You ever feel like someone's watching you? Even when no one's there?"
