The room was featureless and yet familiar, less a setting than a set stage—or maybe that was just how Dara felt, as if the furniture and walls and windows had all fallen away, the world a void beyond the patch of floor where they stood. Dara’s eyes were barely closed, breath shuddering in his chest with every inhale. His lashes fluttered against his cheek—don’t open your eyes, don’t. A light touch skimmed down his upper arm, dropped to his hip.Don’t open your eyes.
Only Dara did. And suddenly he wasn’t him anymore, was outside his body—and his body was Noam’s instead, Noam’s hip under that grasp, Noam’s lips kissing that mouth. Then the hand that had been on Noam’s hip slid up, under the hem of his shirt, and Lehrer said—
Dara lurched upright into humid darkness. For a moment all he could hear was his own heartbeat, fingers twisted in damp bedsheets and lungs aching.
When he reached for the clock on his bedside table, it read 2:03 a.m. Bass thumped through the walls—a car parked outside—punctuated with the rising-pitch laughter of a drunken undergrad.
A shadow shifted against the wall. Dara’s gaze snapped up, and he lifted a hand, half prepared to reach for his magic. Only there was no magic, and the shadow was just the glow of passing headlights filtered through the window blinds.
He couldn’t stay here.
Dara shoved the blankets off his legs and staggered out of bed, grabbing his wristwatch from the dresser and buckling it on, shoving his feet into his old scuffed-up shoes. He clattered down the stairs, fear prickling the nape of his neck. That feeling of being watched—of a presence following just out of sight—didn’t diminish until he was stepping into the gold light and low music of Leo’s bar.
“Three drinks, max,” Leo said when he caught sight of Dara, holding up three fingers to underscore his point.
“Just club soda, thanks,” Dara said, sliding onto one of the stools.
A few patrons clustered at far tables, and two older men were deep in conversation at the other end of the bar, but it was a bit late for crowds. Not that crowds would have stopped Dara tonight. He’d have preferred the risk of being recognized to staying up in that room alone with nightmares scratching at the windows.
Leo inclined his head, something almost appraising in his gaze before he went to get a glass. Dara dug the side of his thumbnail into the table grooves, tracing the grimy wood grain through the damp spots left by previous drinks.
“Have you heard from Claire?” he asked when Leo returned.
Leo set the soda down on a coaster by Dara’s right hand. He’d stuck a lime wedge on the rim. “No. Why? Should I have?”
Dara glanced toward the television positioned in the far top corner of the room. Judging by the closed captions, they were still talking about the failed assassination attempt. But if they’d caught someone ... if they had a suspect in custody, that would be reported. Right?
“No reason.”
He sipped at his club soda. It was a little clubbier than normal; Leo’s spigot must’ve added too much carbonation.
Leo drummed his fingers against the bar top. “Are you okay? You seem ... off.”
Diplomatic.“Fine. Couldn’t sleep.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Glanced in a mirror lately, Zhang?” It came out more snappish than Dara intended, but he didn’t take it back.
Leo just rolled his eyes and propped both elbows atop the counter, leaning in. His hair was messy now, at the end of the night; it hung lopsided over his face in that kind of carefree fashion Dara used to spend ages trying to achieve every morning.
So irritating.
“I used to know kids like you,” Leo said musingly. “Brash, arrogant. Vain. Bullies who started making fun of other people hoping no one would notice how broken they really were.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lashing out to hide your own insecurities? Please, Dara. At least try to be original.”
Dara opened his mouth to retort but immediately clamped it shut again. He wasn’t going to prove Leo’s point. Instead he narrowed his gaze and picked up his soda, swallowing venom down with the water.
Leo laughed. “Here,” he said. “Have some peanuts. I need to check on the other customers.”
The bar was emptying out, bit by bit, but with Leo gone Dara felt far too visible sitting here alone nursing a sparkling water and wearing this ugly, too-large sweater. He pulled out his burner phone and pretended to be texting. Of course, he didn’t know who he’d text. The only numbers he’d memorized were Claire’s and Priya’s. He didn’t dare contact Noam.
Noam, who was probably in Lehrer’s apartment right now, lounging on Lehrer’s sofa and drinking Lehrer’s scotch, his phone screen perfectly in Lehrer’s view.
On second thought, maybe heshouldtext Noam. Something incriminating. Something dirty. Something Lehrer would see that would—
