“Get out,” I say.
My voice doesn’t sound drunk anymore.
It sounds dead.
Cherry sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest like modesty matters after whatever the hell this is. Her eyes are red but dry. That scares me more than tears.
“You were dreaming about her,” she says.
I stare at her.
She smiles, and it is broken in a way that has finally stopped asking to be saved.
“You said Lady.”
My hand curls.
“How did you get in here?”
She looks toward the door. “Your club parties hard.”
“You were in a safe house.”
“I left.”
“Bullshit.”
Her smile twitches. “Carmen has better locks than your brothers.”
Carmen.
Always polished. Always one step back from the hand holding the match.
I take one step toward the bed. Cherry lifts the phone.
“Don’t.”
I stop.
She turns the screen toward me.
The photos are already open.
Me passed out. Her half on top of me. My jeans open enough to damn me in a city that wants to believe the worst. Her mouth near my jaw. My new tattoo visible. A perfect angle. A perfect lie.
My chest goes hollow.
Lady.
Cherry’s thumb hovers.
Then she taps.
Send.
The sound the phone makes is tiny.
It should not feel like a gunshot.
