I will get up and get Dad’s ass dressed. Then he’ll not only escort me to the boarding tower, he’ll share a room with the power technician and nurse him back to health or consciousness or whichever’s required.
My muscles refuse, fight every attempt to stand. Finally I press both fists to the cracked steps and force myself upright. My legs will either work, or I’ll dive headfirst down the stairs. They work.
I climb to the door and dig in my back pocket for my keypass. Then in my side pocket. Then pat myself down all over.
Nothing.
I dropped the pass on the floor of my suite.
“God dammit.” I slap the door, but it doesn’t magically open. Stupid, I am so damn stupid.
I am not buzzing Dad to let me into my own suite.
Not that he’d even hear. Bastard.
I scan the thin digiscreen embedded above the entrance intercom, with its rotating list of names and apartment numbers.
Mrs. Divs would buzz me, but I’d have to wake her. She doesn’t need that. Nobody needs that. Certainly not any of the other names I can’t match to faces, despite having seen them around.
The list cycles in order through the floors. Ten, one, two—three.
Niles Ryker, 308.
Our dinner.
I stood him up.
My forehead drops to the intercom box as the list cycles to the next floor.
He’s going to kill me.
But at least I didn’t kill myself in the process, so he can’t say I don’t keep my word.
I didn’t keep my word to Yonni about Dad.
I slap the wall, hard—rough, grating stone that scrapes my wrist and doesn’t care. I don’t care. I absolutely do not care.
Any second now, I’ll bawl.
I plug in the suite number and hit the intercom.
Several long seconds, then the speaker barks a tight “Yeah?”
“Niles?”
Silence. “Kit?”
“I locked myself out. Can you—”
The door buzzes open.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but the speaker’s dead. I push inside and retrace the endless, twisting climb to my level.
Niles waits outside my suite. Same outfit as this morning, same rumpled hair, but different. Less sexy, more tired, and tense.
My door stands open, and through it float the duel moans of round two.
Or three. You never know with Dad.
Niles glances from the door to me, and for once there’s no smile in him. He stares long enough at my legs that I look, too. My pants are ripped. Climbed out a busted window getting away from the Brinkers.
A crash from my suite. Breathy laughter. A giggled squeal.
My bones frost, my face heats, and I fist my fingers until they crack. “Sorry to wake you. Thanks for letting me in.”
I move, but Niles slides between me and the door.
“That your dad?” Niles asks. “I thought you kicked him out.”
“I’m about to.” I try to bypass him, but he locks his arm across my doorway.
I close my eyes and manage not to scream. “Please, can you just—”
“I’ll get him out,” he says.
“What?”
We’re very close and even the soft curve of his face can’t belie the underlying determination.
“Do you want him in there?” he asks.
“No, but—”
Another shriek, a second crash. What the hell are they breaking?
“Do you really want to walk in on that?” Niles asks, soft.
The heat in my face centers in my eyes. I look away and squeeze them tight. I’m not going to cry.
“Besides, you look like hell,” he says.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Here.” He presses something thin and flat into my palm. A keypass. “I’ll meet you at my place.”
“It’s not your job, and he’s naked,” I say, already cracking.
“That, I figured.” He gently takes my shoulders and turns me toward the elevator. “Go before you fall over.”
I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.
But stupidity seems to be my thing, so I do.
Niles’s suite, or rather his grandfather’s, is smaller than mine but more open. A single wide room with gray carpet, with a sterile kitchen and messy bed in opposite corners, and a couch and chair between. Only the bathroom is enclosed. I lock myself in.
Bottles scatter the sink’s counter. Shaving cream, hair gel, some kind of cologne. No wonder his hair is always perfectly messy. Of course there’s a trick to it. I scrub my hands and face the mirror.
I wear the whole day on my skin.
My hair frizzes out of its bun, a ghostly halo around overdark eyes and a scraped temple. Not sure when that happened. I take down my hair and comb it back into a ponytail. Better.
I wash my face and arms, clean up the scratches, brush the worst of the dirt from my clothes. I cup my hands under the faucet and steal a drink, or three. I’m as presentable as I’m going to get, and it’s time to open the door. Instead, I lean into it.
What if Niles is out there?
What if he isn’t?
I open the door.
Niles half sits on the back of his low couch, a glass in each hand. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Better?”
“Dad?”
“Gone. I even let him get dressed. Her too. Here.” Niles hands me a glass and thumps the ridge of the couch cushion with his knuckles. “Have a seat.”
I sniff the drink. Sweet, but spiked. Not brandy, something lighter. “To drown my sorrows?”