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I set his shorts and shirt on the chair, then kneel to remove his shoes. One sock comes off with the sneaker. The other hangs halfway off his foot, ridiculous and intimate.

Clint watches me through half-open eyes.

The room is quiet except for the air conditioner and our breathing.

“Thanks,” he says.

Soft. Almost embarrassed.

My hand pauses around his ankle.

For once, there is no performance in his face. No smirk. No armor good enough to use.

My breath catches.

“No problem.”

His eyes drift closed before I stand.

Chapter twenty-three

Better Pressure

Clint

Iwake up with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and a construction crew jackhammering behind my right eye.

Not Mom’s basement. Not the apartment.

Where the fuck am I?

Cool air moves over my skin. Bright sun pushes through the patio doors. Somewhere outside, water clicks softly against tile.

Mexico. Casa Sirena. Home… for now.

I sit up and immediately regret every little movement.

“Jesus fuckin’...”

My voice sounds like I spent the night in a dryer.

On the coffee table, next to the framed photos of Paul and Renny, there’s a bottle of water and another with a Spanish label that looks enough like Tylenol for me to trust it. I pop the top, shake out two, and swallow them with half the water.

Relief does not arrive immediately, but the water hits like rain on brown grass. I drink until my stomach sloshes, then cough because the simple act of hydrating is too much right now.

The photos come into focus slowly. Renny laughing. Paul younger and tan and windblown.

And then flashes from last night. Paul crouched beside this couch, my shoe in his hand.

“Oh, no.”

I remember the cab in pieces. The gate. Paul’s hand steady at my shoulder. Me stumbling like a drunk.

I stand because the need to pee is stronger than the need to lie back down.

I’m still in the g-string and nothing else. My morning wood is pressing at the fabric, testing its resolve. My bladder doesn’t give time to worry about it.

I make it three steps toward the hall before the world tilts slightly, just enough to remind me that tequila is not my friend. I steady myself on the back of a chair, breathe through the sour roll in my stomach, then keep moving, morning wood leading the way like a horrible little compass.