“Why do you have this?” I stare at it, my pink doom.
“My mom rescued a Chihuahua mutt that attacks everyone she sees,” Graham explains. “Unless she’s wearing the collar.”
“See?” Eve exclaims. “Science!”
I swallow uncomfortably.Whydid I agree to this? I made my peace with my unpalatable personality long ago. Didn’t I?
Because you want your job back.
Because you want Dr. Srinivasan to sign off on your probation.
Because you want people to like you.
No.
Because you wantNomito like you.
I look at her, trying to gauge her reaction to this ridiculous stunt. She’s laughing—can’t stop, actually. Her brown eyes curve into merry half-moons when she laughs, her freckled cheekbones lifted high and kissed by her dark, lower lashes. Her happiness eases something inside of me. There’s this huge, fierce knot of anger and worry and irritation in my chest that pushes every other feeling out of me. But each peal of Nomi’s laughter feels like fingers gently tugging at the knot until it loosens, giving me a relief I don’t know how to give myself.
I take a deep breath and flip the collar’s switch toOn.
“So. What’s first?”
“The art of casual conversation,” Eve states. “We talk, you respond. The only rule is, don’t be a dick.”
“Got it.”
Eve hands Nomi the remote to deliver the electronic stimulation to my wrist.
“No!” Nomi tries to give it back. “Idon’t want this!”
“Well,Ican’t be trusted,” Eve says. “I’ve got a sensitive trigger finger when it comes to straight white men.”
“So do I!” Nomi insists, still laughing, which should worry me, but honestly, I’m glad it’s her. She’s the one I want to impress.
I clear my throat roughly.
“Are you sure about this?” she asks me quietly, her lingering smile edged with concern.
If it keeps her happy and laughing, I’d do just about anything.
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, my voice low and husky. “I’m arealruff bitch.”
Her cheeks flush, and she hurries to flip the sign to Closedfor our regular afternoon break. The four of us gather into a booth, the air between us prickling with energy.
“So Julian,” Eve begins, drumming against the table. “How ’bout that RFK, Jr.?”
“You wanna talk aboutthatabsolute orang—”
Zap!
“AH!” I jump half a foot in my seat, my collared wrist twitching wildly. “Motherfucker!”
“Sorry!” Nomi exclaims apologetically. “Maybe the setting’s too high? I’ll lower it!”
Graham leans over and examines the remote. “Huh. Princess Sugar takes level twenty like a champ. Lower it to fifteen, I guess.”
“That still sounds very high,” I grit out.
