Page 201

“What?”

“C’mon, Paul.” I motion him up. “You’re an asshole and a liar, but you’re coming with me.”

To my surprise, he obeys. He stands, slow and careful, then dusts his hands down the front of his shorts like there is anything in this room he could wipe off.

His mouth opens.

I cut him off. “Look, we’re two fucked-up guys hiding out in Mexico. You fucked this up worse than I did. Doesn’t mean I haven’t done my own lying.”

He takes a small step closer, then a smaller one back. “But I haven’t even—”

“Don’t grovel.” I point at him. “And if you weren’t going to grovel, then you were about to say something wrong. I’m not gonna let you do this alone.”

He nods and stands there.

I don’t plan what happens.

I pull him into a hug.

It’s supposed to be light. Fast. A human gesture that says we’ll survive this. But his body hits mine and I tighten my arms. After a second, his hands come up my back.

His breath catches near my shoulder. I close my eyes. “We should have done this part earlier.”

I turn before impulse ruins what impulse just corrected and scoop his black bag off the floor.

At the door, I look back.

“Start breathing again, Paul,” I say. “We have a long walk ahead.”

Chapter thirty-two

House Rules

Paul

Clint walks a few steps ahead of me, not speaking, carrying my black overnight bag like it’s nothing.

I follow. That’s my role now. I’m the man who follows Clint.

He doesn’t look back. Not the whole way. I don’t blame him, but it still hurts. Pain is pain, even when deserved.

The climb to Casa Sirena feels longer than it has any right to be. Heat rises from the stone steps in wet waves, and by the time the blue gate comes into view, my shirt clings to my shoulders and chest like wet tissue.

Clint unlocks the gate without ceremony. He pushes inside, waits just long enough for me to follow, then shuts the gate behind us.

The courtyard is familiar and quiet.

I want to thank him for bringing me home. I don’t know why I don’t do it. I guess something deep and territorial still feels entitled. It hasn’t accepted that I might not belong here.

Inside, the house feels dimmer than before. Maybe because the storm scrubbed too much light out of the afternoon. Maybe because Clint is still not speaking.

Clint drops my bag by the sofa. Not gently, but without real violence. Just rough enough to make the statement clear.

“Alright,” he says. “House rules.”

My stomach tightens.

“You’re on probation,” he continues. “If we can’t at least pretend to be open, honest roommates, then one of us has to go.”