“Morning, sinner,” she drawls. “You look like the apocalypse tried to flirt with you.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Oh, you’redefinitelyin the mood,” she teases. “Just not for coffee.”
I groan. “Please stop.”
She hands me a mug anyway, and we walk inside. “You’re welcome.”
The clubhouse smells of espresso, motor oil, and survival. Sloane’s pacing by the security board, barking into a headset. Allura’s perched on the table, arms folded, calm, unamused, radiating power in jeans and eyeliner that could kill a man.
“Someone want to tell me why I’m getting calls aboutgunfire in Long Beach?” Allura asks, her voice smooth as a blade, but her eyes narrow on me.
I take a long swallow of coffee to buy time. “Rumor mill’s fast.”
Sloane cuts in, eyes like polished steel. “Rebel.”
“Relax,” I start, “I wasn’t alone,” I add, and I hate the way my voice softens when I think about Carter.
“Worse,” French interrupts, dragging a chair out backward and flopping into it. “She met a man.”
So much for a best friend. I glare at her. “Not helping.”
“Oh, I’m helping,” French insists, grinning like a wolf. “Because if you don’t tell them, I will.”
Calypso strolls in from the tattoo shop, wiping ink off her hands. “Tell them what?”
“That our dear Treasurer here was shot at,” French singsongs, “and her savior is tall, dark, and an ex-Marine.”
The room stills.
Allura lifts a brow. “You want to run that by me again?”
I sigh. “It wasn’t what it sounds like.”
Sloane’s jaw tightens. “You were in a firefight, and it’s not what it sounds like?”
“Technically, it was an ambush.”
“That’s worse!”
“I didn’t start it!”
Divine appears from the hallway as if summoned by chaos, tablet tucked under her arm, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “What kind of ambush?”
“The kind with bullets,” I mutter. “And very poor aim.”
French snorts into her mug. “You’re deflecting again.”
“I’m staying alive again,” I shoot back. “Big difference.”
Allura’s gaze holds mine, steady and quiet, like she’s weighing what’s unsaid. “Start at the beginning.”
I tell them. Not everything, but enough. The docks. The name, Carter Bishop. The gunfire. The burn of adrenaline still humming in my veins.
When I finish, the silence is tangible. Divine sets her tablet down and says softly, “You realize whoever took that shot wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“I noticed.”
