He also gave me a can of pepper spray and a lecture about night shifts and “situational awareness,” which I ignored right to his face.
I know what you’re going to say. That he worries because he has reason to. You two would probably get along in the most irritating possible way.
Anyway, I start at a station next week. They say I’ll get used to the hours. I don’t want to get used to them. I just want to get good.
—Reva
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
REVA
Sonny doesn’t takeme anywhere near the front door.
She swings her car around the back side of Noir and eases into a narrow alley cut between the building and a brick wall slick with old humidity. The city feels different here. Less like New Orleans proper and more like something tucked under its skin. A service corridor. A vein.
No neon. No line. Just a steel door painted black to match the wall and a single amber light with insects buzzing above it.
I look from the door to Sonny. “This is…nice.”
She kills the engine and gives me a look. “This is the only place I could sneak you in.”
“I gathered.”
She reaches over and squeezes my wrist once, firm and brief. “You sure about this?”
No. Not even a little.
I smooth my palms over the dress, grounding myself in the slick black fabric and the shape of the gun hidden away in the little purse she brought for me. The idea of using it makes my stomach hurt.
“I’m sure enough.”
“That’s not good enough, baby girl.”
“It’ll have to be tonight. But, if something happens, I need you to get the kitten from the hotel for me. Please.”
Sonny studies me for a beat too long, her mouth flattening. “Fine. But we’re making a plan to keep this from going sideways, because I’m not an animal person.”
“A plan?”
“Yes, because unlike you, I like my life.” She points toward the door. “I’ll get you in there, but I obviously can’t stay. I’ll come back at the end of my shift and meet you out here. If you’re not out here?—”
“You’ll leave?”
She snorts. “Please. I’ll decide whether to call the cops, a priest, or a cleanup crew. Probably in that order.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out. Thin. Frayed. But real.
Her expression softens. “Text me if you can. If you can’t, get out when you’re able and come straight here.”
I nod.
She reaches for the handle, then pauses. “And Reva?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever this is—don’t confuse wanting something with owing someone.”
The words catch me off guard. They settle somewhere deep, somewhere inconvenient.
