“Used a lighter?” Carina pulls in a tentative inhale. No hacking this time, which is progress.
“Sex.”
“Oh.” She coughs repeatedly, then tucks a piece of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “Uh, yeah. Once. I was … curious.”
I nod.
“What about you?”
I take the cigarette from her, taking a practiced puff before I hand it back. Exhale. Sometimes, I pretend the dark cloud is all the horrible things I’ve done exiting my body.
“More than once,” I reply, entertained by her bothering to reciprocate the question.
Carina nods. Opens her mouth, then closes it.
“What?”
“It was better this time.”
I frown. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. I just …ithurt. And he told everyone after, which sucked. Some of the girls have been calling me names. I almostdidn’t come this weekend, but I wanted to prove to them that I don’t care what they say, even though I sort of … do.”
“What was his name?”
She adjusts so she can see me better, lit cigarette dangling between her fingertips. “Why?”
Carina might be an innocent, but she is no fool. Some part of her recognizes I am dangerous, that she should stay alert around me.
I’m careful to keep my tone bland as I repeat the word she used. “Curious.”
“Harry Pearson.” She says his name like it tastes bad. “His family owns an airline. The rich get away with everything.”
She’s wrong. The rich don’t get away with everything; the lawless do. A common misconception since there’s often an overlap between the two.
“You should be careful who you trust.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
The immediate, matter-of-fact answer startles me. It’s how I would have replied, not a normal response.
“I need a drink,” I announce, standing and pulling on a pair of shorts. “Want anything?”
Carina waves the cigarette around. “I’m good with this.”
I nod before I head into the hallway. As I walk, I pull my phone out of the pocket and type a message to Misha, asking him to look into an airline owned by Pearsons.
The kitchen is a mess from the party earlier, but it’s empty. I grab the bottle I want, then turn to find Cillian staring at me from the doorway.
He’s two years older than me, but age is relative to power. Hierarchically, I have a few decades on him.
“They all left,” Cillian states, crossing his arms. “Thank fuck.”
I nod, moving to pass him.
“You still have that brunette upstairs?”
I halt. Hold his gaze. “Why?”
