Not stay there.
Not mine.
Where do you want me?
I look at his mouth. Bad idea. Terrible idea. My favorite kind.
“Far enough to prove you can listen.”
His jaw flexes.
Then he steps back.
One step.
Two.
Three.
He places himself at the mouth of the hall, close enough to see me, far enough to obey.
“Here?” he asks.
I swallow.
“Dale,” I say. “There.”
He nods once. “I’ll be there.”
I walk past him before I do something stupid.
The booth sits above the main floor like a throne. When I climb the steps, the crowd roars. The sound hits my bruises, rolls through my bones, and finds the part of me that remembers how to survive by becoming bigger than the room.
I plug in.
Lights drop.
Phones rise.
Somebody near VIP holds up a white rose.
My hand freezes on the mixer.
For one second, I’m back in the warehouse. Cold concrete. Cuffs. Blood. Boca’s mouth too close to me.
Then I see Shady below, exactly where I put him.
Not moving.
Watching the crowd, not me.
Working.
Listening.
I breathe.
One beat.
