“I see.”
“Not yet, you don’t”—she clears her throat—“but you will. Let’s start with the big three: asshole, dumbass, and smartass. The first one is a self-explanatory insult. The second two seem like opposites but aren’t. Any guesses?”
I consider them. “I presume a dumbass is an unintelligent individual.”
Imani nods.
“But smartass isn’t the more intelligent counterpart?”
“Nope, a smartass is someone sarcastic, like this grungy bartender.” She points at Luca as he approaches. “Next there’s asshat, asswipe, and half-assed. The first two are insults, but the last one?—”
“—is when someone does something shittily, like Imani pretending to care about her health while simultaneously refusing to drink enough water to keep a camel hydrated.” Luca drops the bottle in front of her as she rolls her eyes.
I smile at their aggressive teasing. “I’m sensing a theme.”
Imani glares at the water bottle, her lips twisting with disgust. “You think you are, but they’re not all derogatory. Kickass is positive.”
“What’s your favorite?” I ask Luca.
“Probably fuckass.” He smirks. “It can mean whatever you want, depending on your tone.”
I cringe and shake my head. Relativism in linguistics is the enemy of clear communication. It should be avoided at all costs.
Celine leans between us, resting her elbows on the bar. “What’s the topic today?”
I devour her with my eyes—the only acceptable way to get my fill. Everything about her is striking, from her flaming wings to her fiery hair. Even her shape—muscular and soft, angular and smooth—defies reason while demanding notice. I want her to notice me, too.
“Ass fucks,” I say calmly, hiding my smile as Celine gasps. In the process of taking her first sip from the dreaded bottle, Imani snorts water from her nose and stares at me with shock that quickly morphs to glee.
“That”—Imani bumps her fist against mine—“was badass.”
It was stupid and crass—much like the movie we tried to watch with Ciprian and Alistair—but I’m proud of myself for surprising Celine. I don’t get the chance often.
Luca offers me a beer. I shake my head. I need to be sharp; we all do.
Celine notices and stops laughing. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
Imani hops down from her stool. “That’s my cue.” She pats me on the back. “Until next time, Malach.”
I nod at her, then fill the others in on Lyklan’s report.
“We can take Luca’s car,” Celine says, her hand grazing my arm absently. It’s an involuntary gesture, but the strip of skin she touched feels more alive.
“Would it be better to skip tonight?” Luca asks, his hazel eyes searching my face.
“I don’t think it makes a tremendous difference,” Iadmit. “The apartment is stocked with weapons, but it’s not the most defensible location, and they already know where it is.”
“The prize money for this fight is a big deal,” Celine whispers. “If I win tonight, we could afford security upgrades.”
“What does your gut tell you, baby?” Luca asks. “Would he send assassins to the fight?”
Celine’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t think so. It’s not his style—too public.”
“So, we’re careful but not locked down,” Luca says, glancing away as someone waves him over for a drink. I nod, and he grimaces apologetically before moving to serve the customer.
Celine’s hand settles on my lower back, warm and reassuring. “If I haven’t said it before, Malach, I’m grateful that you’re here. Risking your life. Far from home... I know it’s not easy.”
Can’t she see the truth?Standing at her side is easier than breathing. Celine walks away before I can tell her there’s nowhere in this universe I’d rather be.
