“I’m going to ignore that because you’re high off your ass right now,” she snapped. “And if memory serves, you don’t go on second dates.”
“I’m not asking you on a date, princess.” The intensity of his eyes was all-encompassing, his voice velvety and coaxing. The same voice he used to get what he needed from interviewees.
Her earlier sympathy dried up. “I’m sure you think that over-the-top term of endearment is cute, but it’s really not.”
“It’s not cute. It’s true.” He looked at her in a way that somehow managed to see both the past and the present. “You know, the first time I saw you—before the alley—my whole world came to a stop. Everything else in that room faded to nothing, and there was only you, with your beautiful neck and your winter-sunlight hair and eyes that commanded the room.” He tilted his head in thought. “Do you know stephanotis?”
Mae swallowed, suddenly feeling as though she were back in Panama with a man who knew her inside and out. “Stephan-what?”
“It’s a flower. We should find some and go back to the hotel.” He reached out and ran a hand over her hair. “We’ll make a wreath of them and crown you in majesty, and then the world will ignite between us….”
Mae jerked away, embarrassed to find she was holding her breath. She was a soldier who killed without hesitation, not a woman swayed by pretty words. “Go dance. I’m sure there’re plenty of women just as far gone as you who’ll be enthralled by your flowers and fumbling advances.”
“I’ve never fumbled in my life.”
She turned away, angling her body so that her back was to him. Tense, she waited for more, but it never came. When she finally dared a look back, he was gone. The bartender strolled over.
“Refill?”
She shook her head and left for a wall near a back exit. It gave her a good vantage of the dance floor but kept her away from most of the crowd—not that it stopped her from getting hit on. She should’ve left. There was no reason for her to be here. She didn’t even know why she’d come. Yet, something in her couldn’t abandon Justin, especially now that he was in the throes of drugs and alcohol. Not that he seemed to need much help. Each time she caught a glimpse of him, he was talking to a different woman, his face alight and full of that oozing charisma. He seemed to be on top of his game as the night went on, confident and in control, even after a trip to the bar for another drink and vial. It made his earlier proposition that much more insulting. Disgust filled her, and she welcomed it. It was easier to deal with than attraction.
Blinking out of her own troubled thoughts, she focused back on the dance floor. She couldn’t see Justin, but she could make out a few people standing around, looking at something on the floor. One of the gathered people shifted slightly away from whatever they all were watching, and Mae caught a glimpse of the jacket Justin had been wearing earlier. Her adrenaline spiked. She sprinted over to the gathered people, none of whom seemed in any particular hurry to act or move. Her stomach lurched as her worst fears were realized. It was Justin, sprawled on the floor, eyelids barely open as his breathing came fast and shallow. Alive—for now. As she quickly knelt down beside him, she wondered just how much trouble she’d get into if he died.
CHAPTER 13
TWO PERCENT
Justin opened his eyes and promptly closed them again—the light hurt too much. He waited a few moments and then decided to try again, this time using his hand to shade his eyes. Even that small amount of motion was uncomfortable. The muscles in his body felt limp and sore. The view above him revealed nothing, as that’s where the light source was, and only made him close his eyes again. With great effort, he tried to shift his body over and look to the side. He was on some kind of hard, uncomfortable bed, and his body complained against it accordingly.
Still keeping his eyes shaded, he blinked rapidly and tried to bring the room into focus around him. The walls gleamed dully in an inoffensive shade of taupe, and a large dark square hung nearby, which he assumed was a window. There was someone standing near it, appearing only as a shadowy figure. That figure approached, and he could start to discern more tangible features: lean body, golden hair. His Valkyrie.
“Hey,” he said, surprised when his own voice had difficulty coming out. There was a strange taste in his mouth. “What’s new?”
“You’re an idiot.” His angry Valkyrie.
“That’s not really new.” She stood in focus now. Her face looked strained, and most of her hair had fallen out of its ponytail. “What happened?” Then, before she could reply: “A bad trip?”