27
Atara
I've counted the exits four times now, which is its own kind of depressing.
Three months ago, I counted citations and the change in my coffee budget. Now I count the doors a man could walk through to kill me. I take a sip of champagne I have no intention of finishing and let my eyes keep moving — the bar, the terrace, the service corridor, Lorcan and I fought over for forty-five minutes in the war room.
“You're doing the thing,” Lorcan says beside me, low enough that the couple drifting past us can't hear it.
“What thing?”
“You're working. Stop. You look like you're about to audit the centerpieces.”
“The centerpieces are hiding three of your men and we both know it.” I smile at the couple like I've just said something delightful. “I'm allowed to admire the staging.”
He doesn't smile back. The corner of his mouth moves about a millimeter, which from him is roughly the same thing. He's in black, no tie, and he's been holding my hand on and off all night in a way that has nothing to do with affection and everything to do with the wordminebeing legible from across a room. I should hate it.I should really, really hate it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I murmur.
“Like what?”
“Like I'm dessert.”
“You're in red,” he says, as if that explains everything. To him, it apparently does.
A man peels off from the bar and angles toward us, and my radar pings before he's halfway across the floor. Senator Whitfield. I recognize him from the guest list and from the way three of Lorcan's accounts quietly route through his committee. He's somewhere north of sixty, silver and tanned in the way money lets men be, and he is looking at me like he's already decided how the conversation ends.
“O'Shea,” he says, but he says it to my collarbone. “You've been keeping secrets.”
“Senator.” Lorcan's voice is perfectly flat.
“And who is this?” Whitfield's gaze travels down and back up, slow, like he's pricing a car. “My God. Where have they been hiding you, sweetheart?”
“In the accounts you keep losing track of,” I say, sweet as anything. “You should really read the line items before you sign. Page nine is doing a lot of work for you.”
It takes him a second. When it lands, his smile goes stiff, but his eyes drop right back to my chest like they're magnetized, like I didn't just tell him I've read his dirty laundry by the page number.
Lorcan moves. Not fast — he never does — he just steps in so his shoulder is between the Senator's eyeline and me, close enough that Whitfield has to tip his head back.
“You seem to be having trouble with where to put your eyes,” Lorcan says, quiet and almost pleasant. “Look at her like that one more time, and you can keep the committee. You won't need the eyes.”
The Senator opens his mouth. Closes it. The tan goes a shade grayer.
“Good man,” Lorcan says, and just like that, he's bored. “Go enjoy the bar.”
Whitfield retreats. I wait until he's swallowed by the crowd before I exhale.
“You didn't have to do that,” I say. “I had him.”
“I know you had him.” He takes my glass out of my hand and sets it on a passing tray. “I did it because I wanted to.”
“That's not a good reason.”
“It's the only one I've got tonight.” He holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“We're working.”
“We're standing in a corner counting doors. We'll see more from the floor.” His hand stays where it is. “Dance with me, Atara.”
