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ARSÈNE
Two weeks later
“Thanks for letting me crash with you.” Riggs wobbles out of the taxi behind me, hammered as a thousand goddamn nails.
I glance at my watch. “Lettingis a big word. You followed me home, asshole. I had little choice in the matter.”
“C’mon, Ars. Everyone wants a stalker. Means you made it in life.” He slaps my back good-naturedly, his golden curls tumbling down his wide brow as he shakes his head.
“You’re an odd creature,” I grumble.
“Said the pot to the kettle.”
We make our way down the street to my apartment. I’d asked the taxi driver to drop us off before we reached our destination, worried my childhood friend would vomit all over his leather seats.
Riggs pushes his fists into his front pockets, whistling tunelessly.
“What’s your next destination?” I ask, trying to quiet my mind. Grace hasn’t contacted me these last couple of weeks. I know she’s still digesting the loss of her edge on me. She and I both know that throughthis will, I became too important for her to continue playing games with.
She knows I will ask for concessions—heavy ones. And she’s biding her time.
“North Jakarta,” Riggs replies.
Ihmm.
“That’s in Indonesia, you uncultured swine.” He chuckles.
“When are you leaving?”
“Next week.” He kicks an empty soda can on the sidewalk straight into a trash can, in a curled free kick that would put Beckham to shame. “For three weeks. It’s kind of a perk, since I won Photo of the Year last year.”
The photo was of a lightning strike touching a sandhill crane’s wing. He caught the entire flock lifting off at the same time, flying in the same direction. The background was all purple and blue.
I have no doubt Riggs is full of all the dark matter artists are born with. But whatever darkness resides in him, he makes sure not to let anyone see it. The happy-go-lucky, handsome man chasing skirt and adventure is the version everyone gets, his best friends included. In a way, I suspect that he’s fucked up more than both Christian and me combined.
I shove the glass door to my building with my shoulder. We make our way to the elevator.
“Alfred, my good man.” Riggs bumps fists with my seventy-year-old doorman while I drag him inside. “How’s Suzanne doing? Hip surgery went well?”
“Beyond well, Mr.Riggs. Thank you for sending flowers—it was most kind of you. She’s already up and about. Glad to have you back. Mr.Corbin, I—”
“Not now, Alfred,” I bark, advancing toward the elevator. Riggs may be a nice guy to service providers, but he’s also a goddamn 180 pounds of muscles to carry right now, and drunk as hell.
“But sir—”
“I said I’m busy.”
Riggs knows Alfred’s wife’s name. Unbelievable. That asshole better rent an apartment in the city next year. My place is not a hostel, and he is starting to become too comfortable here.
We take the elevator up. Riggs squints at me. “Where are your manners, ass-face? Alfred is an elderly gentleman.”
“I don’t care if he is the pope himself.” I push the door to my apartment open.
“Now make yourself useful and order us a bite.Yourtreat.” I make it halfway across the living room before realizing Riggs has frozen over. He is standing in front of my couch, mouth open, eyes wide.
I stop.
Stare at my sofa.
