“Would you rather have water?” He stands, moves toward the kitchen. “Don’t have much else.”
I shake my head. Dad lives his life wasted, why can’t I?
The digiclock in the kitchen says it’s after three.
I sink into the couch, but instead of joining me, Niles pulls the chair opposite closer. We face each other, knees almost brushing.
An interrogation then.
He sets his drink aside. I down mine in one gulp. It slides easy and burns a little, a harsh, radiating quiet.
Niles gapes.
I stare into my glass. “What . . . was that?”
He eyes me like any second I’ll burst into flames. “Uh, sweetblue.”
So, lighter than brandy, but stronger than wine. Definitely stronger. And I can’t remember when I last ate. Lovely.
Too late now.
I set my glass on the table and hug my arms. “Okay. Have at me.”
“What?”
“The questions,” I say. “Reprisals, whatever. Shoot.”
He blinks, lips stuck open. Apparently, I’m saying all the wrong things today. He stares and stares, and stares some more.
I know I don’t look that bad.
My chest knots and my eyes heat, and this sweetblue is freakin’ worthless.
“You okay?” Niles asks.
“You’re the one who dealt with Dad; how are you feeling?”
“Fantastic. You?”
“Over the moon.”
He smiles with more warmth, though still no laughter—that constant, teasing undercurrent in every subtle look. Funny how blinding warmth is once it’s gone. “You’re pretty scraped up. Get in a fight?”
Now that he mentions it, my stomach cries murder from a fist-size bruise. I hug my waist and fight the urge to double over. “Don’t remind me.”
The smile disintegrates and he leans forward, elbows on knees, serious now. “You were in a fight.”
“No. One punch isn’t a fight, it’s just—” I reach for my glass, but it’s empty. I set it back down. “I don’t know. I got out.”
“Out?” His voice lowers like it did in the hall, registers with the hum in my blood. “From where?”
“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know where I was.” I grab the edge of the couch cushions, arms straight at my sides. But the dark’s lodged in my head now, along with the slide of the calm one’s hand down my spine. His easy assurance, his assumption of right. They hadn’t intended to dose me, so, of course, it doesn’t matter if I— “The power tech.” I bolt upright. The room spins, but it doesn’t matter. “Hell.”
Niles is on his feet, chair burning the carpet as he kicks it back, so there’s room enough for him and me. “What—”
“You don’t understand. Greg dosed him before he dosed me. And now the residents have probably robbed him blind and the clerk kicked him out, and—”
“Wait.” He takes my shoulders as I sway, the room refusing to steady. “Somebody dosed you?”
I reach for the small bump on my neck, then let my hand fall. “Doesn’t matter. I have to go.”
His eyes narrow and he gathers my hair over my opposite shoulder to bare the area I’d touched. Closes in, peering, neck craning to see, until my nose is practically in his hair.
His scent has layers. Open with undercurrents. Like the city up high, at night on the rooftop, but more . . . boy. Probably the stuff from his bathroom counter. The gel or the cologne. Except—I close my eyes and breathe. Nothing astringent, there’s too much depth. A subtle core. A reality. I want it to be real.
It’s not, or probably isn’t, but if it was—
Maybe he’d taste of it, too.
His thumb brushes my neck where the needle bit and I jerk, jarring us both.
“Shit, sorry,” he breathes, and I feel that, too. Against my neck. Down my back. Even my toes light up. He pulls away and flicks at his hair with an irritated shake, leaving the full brown-black of his eyes front and center. “Who was it? Who dosed you?”
I close my eyes to hide his. Focus.
The sweetblue isn’t helping.
Niles isn’t helping.
“The power technician,” I repeat, almost chant in my head. “I have to find him. They said Greg didn’t kill him, but that’s not exactly proof. They said a lot of things.”
“Kit?” A perfect balance of K and T. Everyone always overemphasizes one or the other. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Not your problem.”
“If it’s nothing, then tell me.” He’s too near, especially with the couch at my back and nowhere to go. Not that I want to go anywhere.
“Wasn’t Dad enough for one day?” I ask.
“Won’t know until you tell me.”
“What do you care?”
He halves the distance between us without actually touching. That shouldn’t be possible. “You buzz my door in the middle of the night with your face scraped up, your clothes half-torn and a hole in your neck. Call me curious.”
And you stood me up, he doesn’t add.
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have buzzed you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
His bangs fall again, and he swipes them back with frustrated fingers. “What the hell is going on?”
“I got grabbed, okay? My cousin set me up.”
“Your cousin?”