It looks like he finally took a shower, though. No blood. And I’m guessing he healed himself, though there’s no way to be sure, because he’s fully clothed, wearing an outfit I can only assume was borrowed from Haider. A lot of leather.
I watch, for only a few seconds, as he stalks clear across the room—straight through people and conversations and apologizing to no one—toward Sonya and Sara, who are still talking to Castle.
Whatever.
Dude doesn’t even look at me anymore. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Not that I care. It’s not like we were actually friends.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Somehow I’ve already drained my teacup, because Brendan’s refilled it. I throw back the fresh cup in a couple of quick gulps and shove a dry biscuit in my mouth. And then I shake my head. “All right, we’re getting distracted,” I say, and the words feel just a little too loud, even to my own ears. “Focus, please.”
“Right,” Winston says. “Focus. What are we focusing on?”
“New mission,” Ian says, sitting back in his chair. He counts off on his fingers: “Save Adam and James. Kill the other supreme commanders. Finally get some sleep.”
“Nice and easy,” Brendan says. “I like it.”
“You know what?” I say. “I think I should go talk to him.”
Winston raises an eyebrow. “Talk to who?”
“Warner, obviously.” My brain feels warm. A little fuzzy. “I should go talk to him. No one talks to him. Why are we just letting him revert back into an asshole? I should talk to him.”
“That’s a great idea,” Ian says, smiling as he sits forward. “Go for it.”
“Don’t you dare listen to him,” Winston says, shoving Ian back into his chair. “Ian just wants to watch you get murdered.”
“Fucking rude, Sanchez.”
Ian shrugs.
“On an unrelated note,” Winston says to me. “How does your head feel?”
I frown, gingerly touching my fingers to my skull. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Winston says, “that this is probably a good time to tell you I’ve been pouring whiskey in your tea all night.”
“What the hell?” I sit up too fast. Bad idea. “Why?”
“You seemed stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
Everyone stares at me.
“All right, whatever,” I say. “I’m stressed. But I’m not drunk.”
“No.” He peers at me. “But you probably need all the brain cells you can spare if you’re going to talk to Warner. I would. I’m not too proud to admit that I find him genuinely terrifying.”
Ian rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing terrifying about that guy. His only problem is that he’s an arrogant son of a puta with his own head stuck so far up his ass he ca—”
“Wait,” I say, blinking. “Where’d he go?”
Everyone spins around, looking for him.
I swear, five seconds ago he was standing right there. I swivel my head back and forth like a cartoon character, understanding only vaguely that I’m moving both a little too fast and a little too slow due to Winston, number one idiot slash well-meaning friend. But in the process of scanning the room for Warner, I spot the one person I’d been making an effort to avoid: Nazeera.
I fling myself back down in my chair too hard, nearly knocking myself out. I hunch over, breathing a little funny, and then, for no rational reason, I start laughing. Winston, Ian, and Brendan are all staring at me like I’m insane, and I don’t blame them. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t even know why I’m hiding from Nazeera. There’s nothing scary about her, not exactly. Nothing more scary than the fact that we haven’t really discussed the last emotional conversation we had, shortly after she kicked me in the back and I nearly murdered her for it.
She told me I was her first kiss.
And then the sky melted and Juliette was possessed by her sister and the romantic moment was forever interrupted. It’s been about five days since she and I had that conversation, and ever since then it’s just been super stress and work and more stress and Anderson is an asshole and James and Adam are being held hostage.
Also: I’ve been pissed at her.
There’s a part of me that would really, really like to just carry her away to a private corner somewhere, but there’s another part of me that won’t allow it. Because I’m mad at her. She knew how much it meant to me to go after James, and she just shrugged it off with little to no sympathy. A little sympathy, I guess. But not much. Anyway, am I thinking too much? I think I’m thinking too much.