This is not good.
"If I could, I'd put my arms around you and never let you go,” I say, unable to stop myself.
Aura looks up at me with a beautifully hopeful expression that makes every part of me feel alive.
"You could cry all over my shoulder and I'd just keep holding you."
"Even if I’m snotty and I get it on you?" she asks, wiping her nose with her arm at the same time.
I nod solemnly. "I wouldn't let you pull away or use a tissue, even if you tried."
The tiniest of smiles breaks through and it's like sunshine after a brutal winter.
"Help me make her comfortable, and we'll go home,” I say.
"Home," she repeats, a wariness in her eye.
"To the apartment," I clarify. Aurora nods and gets up off the floor. She disappears to the restroom, leaving me for a moment. I scrub my fingers through my hair. I take a moment to process this shit show.
No. We did good.
Everything is okay.
I didn't touch Aurora.
She didn't kill Merry.
Though the hard boundaries that have always been there are no more than broken lines of sand now, and I don't know what that means or what the consequence will be, but things are changing. They are changing faster than I can control, and the worst part is I want them to.
I've regained my composure by the time Aurora returns. With her help, we reposition Merry in bed so she is comfortably tucked in. Aurora even rolled off the stockings and took off the constricting garter, saying it's not fun to wake up pinched.
We buy a couple water bottles and snacks from the vending machine and leave them on the bedside table for Merry when she wakes.
Then we're gone.
After assuring Merry was alive,we rushed to the apartment to clean up and change for our shifts at Poison Apple.
The whiplash of it sits heavy in my chest. One moment, I'm dragging Aurora off the floor, her sobs ripping through the air. The next, we’re stepping back into a bar lit up in neon and noise, pretending none of it happened. Pretending she didn’t nearly drain someone dry.
But she does it. Slides behind the bar like nothing earth-shattering happened.
I take my usual post at the front, checking IDs and scanning for trouble, but my eyes are never far from her. At least I got her to eat. Granted she doesn’t share the unhealthy obsession for The Salty Bastard food that I have, but I had to take control when she became barely responsive. She had half a lobster roll and some fries.
Every hour, I do a circuit. Bounce a belligerent drunk, clock the regulars, intervene just enough to keep order. But I always find my way back to the booth near the door, always keeping her in my sightline.
Aurora’s still hungry. I can see it in the way her shoulders tighten when someone gets too close, in the way her laughter always ends a beat too soon. But the wildness in her power has dulled. She’s sharper, focused. Pouring drinks and joking with the other girls.
She looks okay.
But I know better.
Earlier, Merry messaged me through the hookup app. Said the night was unreal, apologized for passing out, claimed that never happens. She offered to meet again.
That won’t be happening. That kind of contact draws attention we can’t afford.
Hours later,the night has exhaled. The doors are locked. Music hums low through the speakers, meant only for the staff now. Chairs are flipped. The scent of lemon cleaner hangs in the air.
Aurora’s still behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, practicing bottle flair with a half-filled plastic one. It slips mid-spin and clatters to the floor.
