“No.” I don’t release him from his compulsion. Not yet. Not until I ask one more question, “Who are Quinn and Reevey?”
His throat dips as though he were annoyed I’d rooted through his stuff. Except under the effect of compulsion, one can’t feel annoyed, so I fathom my conscience is making me misinterpret his physical reaction.
“Reevey is the owner of a cookbook I found in a little free library in Back Bay.” A shadow seems to fall into his eyes. “Quinn must’ve been his girlfriend or roommate since she gifted him the book and expected him to make her the recipes.”
“Why do you look upset? Because I went through your stuff?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I feel like a thief. I took a book without leaving one.”
I blink at him, releasing him from my magical interrogation.
A line forms between his eyebrows. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you never cease to surprise me,” I murmur just as a waiter swoops by with a stone bowl full of mashed avocado, a basket of tortilla chips, and our salt-rimmed concoctions.
“In a good way?” Cillian asks.
“Yes, Cillian. In a good way.” I pick up a chip and nibble on the three corners.
“Did you have a nice day?”
“No.”
His eyebrows slant, vanishing behind the top of his glasses’ black rim. “Why?”
“Just one of those days.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” I nip off another piece of chip.
“I’m here if you change your mind.”
The chair in front of mine grinds against the tiled floor as Jeneva sinks into it. “I don’t really get it. You don’t seem like each other’s type. Hope that doesn’t come off as rude.”
Cillian’s pupils shrink. “Electra is exactly?—”
I press my knuckles to his mouth to silence him. “What type of girl do you see Cillian with?” I can’t help but ask. “Someone more like you?”
Cillian catches my hand and drags it down in the space between his legs, then laces our fingers together. I let him fold his fingers around mine—to sell the illusion.
“Just someone softer and…I don’t know”—she munches on a chip, then swallows—“perkier. You’re like the poster child for doom and gloom.”
I snort, grab my margarita, and take a swig. For some reason, I forget I got the deadly-spicy one. My mouth and throat feel like they’ve caught fire. My veins, too. Holy fuck…
I cough. Splutter.
“Water!” Cillian shouts.
“Actually, milk works better.” I hear Jeneva say.
My eyes water. I blindly reach for the nearest glass. It turns out to be the dregs of Cillian’s vodka. I shoot it down, ice cubes and all. They feel like a balm against my scorching throat, but too soon, the fiery sensation returns.
I grab a chip and heap it with guacamole, then jam it inside my mouth.
