Butcher & Blackbird (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #1)(37)

“Please? Super please. Big extra pleases with cherries on top,” she says as she stops in front of me. Her dainty hands curl around my biceps in an uncharacteristically forward touch, her blood-red nails like talons against my skin. “I’ll even give you a victory claim to make up for last year. Whatever you want.”

I swallow and resist the urge to either maul her or run away. My feet stay planted as my eyes narrow with skepticism. “Whatever I want?”

She nods, but her brow furrows as though she’s just starting to realize what she’s gotten herself into.

My slow smile is wicked. “You’re one hundred percent sure about this.”

Her face scrunches. My grin stretches.

David burps.

And just like that, my smile disappears. “Fucksakes. I’m going to regret this, aren’t I.”

Sloane bounces in place.

“I’m going to collect,” I warn.

“I know.”

“And you’re helping me clean.”

“I thought that much was obvious, seeing as how I just washed your puke bowl.”

I let loose a heavy, lengthy sigh. “Fine,” I say on a groan, and Sloane beams. She bounces in place. There might even be a squeak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her bounce or squeak, and I’m not sure it’s so much about David as it is about convincing me into something that she really, really wants.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

In one hop, she kisses me on the cheek.

And then she’s gone, the echo of her touch fading as though it was never real, just imagined. But I think I catch the wisp of blush on her cheek as she turns away. I think she hides it from me as she gathers supplies to start cleaning. In fact, I know it. It’s in the shy smile she darts in my direction before she lowers her head and leaves for the dining room.

It takes a few hours of cleaning to erase our presence from Thorsten’s house. When we’re done, I keep David occupied in the kitchen by loading the same three racks of dishes over and over, and then I walk Sloane outside.

We stand in silence, both of us looking up at the few stars whose light penetrates the pollution from the city sprawl beyond the dark hills. It was only a few hours ago that it felt like the universe had collapsed in on us. All its power was honed in a single blade. And now we’re a fleeting breath of time beneath starlight.

It’s Sloane’s voice that breaks the night.

“I think we’re officially best friends now,” she says.

“Oh yeah? Do you want to go do karate in the garage?”

Sloane grins at her feet. Her dimple is a shadow in the porch light. My heart is still turning over when her smile fades.

“I lied, by the way,” she says.

I wish she’d return my gaze, but she doesn’t. She can’t bring herself to. So I take a second to memorize the details of her profile, because I know the hardest part is coming, just like it did last year, just like it did in the restaurant.

“Lied about what?” I ask.

The delicate column of her throat shifts as she swallows.

And then her head turns, just enough to give me her eyes and a melancholy smile that tips up one corner of her lips, the faint trace of her dimple coaxed into view.

“Boston. I wasn’t there for a meeting.”

Her words echo in my head, and before I can absorb them or ask what she means, she hikes her bag higher on her shoulder and walks away.

I don’t just hate this part. I fucking loathe it.

“See you next year, Butcher,” she says, and then she slips into her car and disappears into the night.

I lied too, I want to say. But I just don’t get the chance.





12





PUZZLES





SLOANE


“M ore boobs.”

“Seriously?”

“More. Boobs.”

I look down at my black dress and back to the laptop screen where Lark has her hands under her breasts, pushing them up.

A deep sigh passes my lips. My heart has been hammering for the last hour.

And just think! Only another hour to go.

My heart rate doubles.

“Go big or go home, Sloaney!” Lark chimes through the laptop speaker. “Boobs!”

A conflicted groan rumbles in my chest. “Okay…”

“That’s the spirit!”

I huff an unsteady laugh and head to my luggage to get what Lark calls the ‘emergency dress’. It’s a curve-hugging, vintage-inspired oxblood velvet cocktail dress with black scalloped lace detailing that skims the low-cut neckline. It fits like a second skin. I change out of Lark’s view and slide on a pair of simple black pumps, taking in my reflection in the floor-length mirror next to the TV. I feel like a retro movie pin-up girl. With a deep breath and a final slide of my hands over the ripples in the soft fabric, I step into view of the camera.

“That’s the one,” Lark says with happy claps as she bounces on the edge of her bed back in Raleigh. “One hundred percent. Hair down. Do some old Hollywood waves. Gold star! Two gold stars! One for each boob.”

She totally would gold star my tits if she was here in the room. She’s always carrying around gold star stickers, mostly for the children she works with as a music therapist when she’s not on the road performing, but she’s not afraid to whip them out for adults too.