“Let. Her. Go.” He wraps me in his arms, holding me against his side and leading me away from the dance floor. I stumble, but he keeps me upright. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Cool air hits me, and I’m glad. I hadn’t realized how much I’d overheated. Unfortunately, it’s too little too late. I wrench from Frosty and dive to the gravel-covered ground. When I land, half my dinner comes up in a rush.
“At least you didn’t vomit on my Italian loafers,” he mutters.
“That would have been...awesome,” I splutter.
Strong hands hold back my hair as the other half of my dinner pulls the eject lever.
“I’ve been keeping track of your flaws, you know,” he says.
“How kind of you.” Bastard.
“This one, the inability to hold your liquor. It’s actually kind of cute.”
Double-dog bastard.
“You look so tough. You are tough. But get a couple shots of vodka in you and it’s a total TKO.”
A moment passes, or maybe an eternity. I finally stop heaving. He picks me up and carries me to Cole’s Jeep, muttering softly, “What am I going to do with you?”
I want to open my eyes, want to read his expression, but I don’t have the strength. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I’m sorry.”
He sighs. “I only wish that was the crux of the problem.”
His soft words are the last thing I remember until I wake up however long later, haunted by another dream of burning to death by crimson fire. Dynamis, only twisted and warped.
Where I am? I ease upright to look around. Queen-size bed. The sheets are Star Wars themed. There’s a dresser with one drawer open, a white T-shirt hanging over the side, but there’s no other furniture.
This is... I’m in Frosty’s bedroom. His inner sanctum. He’s always made me sleep on the couch. Where is he?
My stomach protests as I stand. At least my dizziness is gone. I search the apartment, but find no sign of my partner...roommate...whatever. He must have dropped me off and run for the hills, hoping to salvage what he could of the night. Does he care nothing for his own safety? Do I? I never should have had those shots. I lost focus in a hurry. I also lost my dignity.
Fun only lasts a little while. Consequences are a lifetime. I know this better than most, which makes me twice the idiot for tonight’s behavior.
I stalk to the front window that overlooks the apartment’s parking lot. The sun is a big ball of orange-gold fire as it rises in the horizon. Beautiful, but not quite high enough in the sky to chase the shadows from the lot. At least I can see that Frosty’s truck is gone.
Asshole! My cell phone is still in my pocket because I’m still dressed in my club clothes. I text Frosty—where R U?—but he doesn’t respond.
Desperate, I text Ali. The fox has left the henhouse. Any idea where he is?
Her reply comes only a moment later. U had vomit breath. We ALL jumped ship.
Me, my cheeks going up in flames: He’s w/U?
Her: No. He’s w/the boys. Apparently he needed something called “punch in the face therapy”
Me: Why? & does PITFT mean Cole & the boys R actually hitting him?
Her: Not sure. & YES!!!
Me: They R so lucky
Frustrated, I throw my phone across the room. Of course, I suffer instant regret. If I break it, I can’t afford to buy another one. But as I turn to collect it, I glimpse a shadow creeping through the parking lot. Zombies? A Peeping Tom? Spy?
My heart is nothing but a war drum as I grab the .44 hidden in a hollowed-out book on the coffee table. I’m out the door and tracking the shadow a few seconds later.
This seems to be my MO lately. Going off alone, practically begging to be ambushed. But make a move, shadow. Try to take me down. I’ll give worse than I get.
I circle the entire lot twice, but find no hint of foul play. No scent of rot. Still. I’m not reassured. Just before Anima captured and tortured River, I suspected I was being followed and watched, yet I could never find proof.
When I return to the apartment, a sense of foreboding accompanies me.
I’m ashamed of myself—because I’m not actually ashamed of myself.
Dude. I’m a mess. A tangle of confusion, disdain, self-loathing...and desire.
At the center of all this turmoil? Camilla. In the middle of an insult-fest, I got hard for her. I’d all but called her a low-down dirty quitter, but rather than slap me, she’d looked at me with those eyes. Those luminous golden eyes. Suddenly, all I could think about—all I cared about—was that she was the embodiment of sex. A punk-rock Barbie with a jones for something rough and dirty.
I’d had a few too many shots, that was all. Vodka turns the most devoted guys into he-sluts.
But does it really matter? I’m not devoted to Kat anymore. She’s certainly not devoted to me.
After the boys and I drop off the girls—Ali at slayer HQ and Camilla at my apartment—we pick up Bronx, Justin and River, who’s still in town to help to train the new recruits. New recruits I’ve never met and haven’t vetted to make sure they’re legit.
Bad Frosty. Bad.