“Thanks for the drink,” I said, standing.
She tapped a nail on the rim of her glass. “Leaving so soon? We’ve hardly met.”
“Got people waiting.”
“Tell you what.” She took a long slug, and I could not look away from the waves of shadow cascading down her throat. “Beat me and I’ll tell you how I outfoxed you.”
“I don’t hurt women.”
“I meant at darts,” she said, imitating my deep voice.
I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me as a guy or a trans guy. Her tone was dry, ironic, but it had been since she started talking.
Hell with it. “Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“You’re new here. I’m Ren.”
No reaction.
“The Ren. From YouTube.”
“Is this the part where I’m starstruck?”
“I saw how you looked at me.”
“Same as I look at any pretty boy.” Her smile had a cutting quality, slicing my insides to ribbons. “So, Ren from YouTube, are you going to play?”
“We’re already playing.” My voice was all grit. “And I don’t like your game.”
As I turned to go, fingertips grazed my forearm. The hair there stirred.
“Be fair. You’ve charmed me with that lovely face and these exquisite arms. Allow me to return the favor.”
This was starting to feel like one big mind-trip.
“Do I get your name?” I said.
“Call me Cressida. Cress, if you like.”
Chaucer flickered through my head. No calling her bluff—the names we give ourselves are the truest ones. Even when they’re lies.
“Cress,” I said, “you seem like trouble.”
“Good thing you like bad girls.”
“They’re my Kryptonite.”
“Does that make you Superman?”
“It makes me a stupid boy.”
She laughed.
Oh man. Her laugh.
“Play me,” she said. “One round.”
“All right.”
She carried her beer to the dartboard and I tried very hard not to stare at her ass. Until she bent to retie her boot.
Nope.
I made myself count the silver Slinky rings of condensation on a tabletop.
Cress straightened, shot me a look with that crook in the corner of her mouth that never seemed to fade, and yanked the darts from the board.
“What’s your game?” I said. “Round the Clock?”
“With a twist.”
At a nearby table stood a bottle of Captain Morgan and two shot glasses. She filled one.
“What are you doing?” I said, my hackles rising.
“Looking for a worthy challenger.”
“No thanks.” I laid my palm atop the second glass before she poured. “I work tonight.”
“What line of work are you in?”
“One that needs a clear head.”
She shrugged and did her shot. The leather of her jacket creaked. I could smell it, a pleasant mustiness, and the scorched vanilla of the liquor, and a scent that was her, something that made me think of crushed flowers—a sweetness created by violence.
Fuck. Ren. Don’t.
Cress didn’t say a word about me turning down the challenge. Didn’t have to. With a droll look she pivoted and flung a dart without aiming.
Bull’s-eye, of course.
She refilled her glass.
I scrubbed a hand through my hair, grimacing.
“If you can’t beat me with a head start,” she said, “maybe you should find another line of work.”
My dumb male ego bristled. I chugged the rest of my beer, belched unrepentantly, and did a shot before my frontal cortex could kick in.
“Judging by your body weight,” I said, unabashedly ogling her curves, “we’re equally intoxicated. Now give me a dart.”
She did.
I glanced once at the board and then, holding her gaze, threw sideways, my arm snapping between our bodies. Just as precise but stronger. I kept my bicep elevated between us, watched her eyes trace the cabled muscle.
Something clattered to the floor. Her dart, dislodged by mine.
“Nicely done,” she said.
Ten or fifteen throws later—I don’t think either of us was counting anymore—we were soused and the score was tied and the crowd around us revolved, a carousel of weird faces, lurid in their glee. Their voices whirled dizzyingly around me.
“Are you all right?” Cress said.
If I answered, I might puke.
I fumbled for my phone. Twelve thirty-four. Ellis had texted me a wolf emoji followed by an angry face.
Uh-oh.
I was late and Laney was displeased.
Cress eyed me sympathetically. “Shall we call it a draw?”
I leaned on a table. At least I tried to, but my palm slipped and my elbow cracked the wood. “I can keep going.”
“You can barely stand.” She bent close, a coil of cool black silk tickling my face. Her voice was pitched for me alone. “You’re good. I’ll grant you that. But I’m better.”
“Better at what?”
“Your job.” Her fingertip brushed my cheekbone. “Go on, then. Go tend to your dark flowers, little boy.”
It took a moment for her words to parse. My head snapped up, eyes clearing. Only strangers remained. I stood and lurched through the crowd, searching, but she was gone.
And that was a very, very big problem.
Because she knew about Black Iris.
———