Page 53 of The Devil’s Feather

“It really was,” I agreed. “Maybe overkill, but you got your point across. Nobody’s ever defended me like that before.”

Rafael’s severe expression relaxed. “Sorry you had to see me that way. When you cried out, I lost my shit.”

He’d really meant what he said about protecting me.

I reached for his hand. “I was more startled than anything. Are you ok though? You got pretty worked up.”

“If you are, then I will be.” Rafael raised my hand to his lips. “I try not to start fights, but I especially fucking hate that brand of asshole. Yelling on speakerphone and bulldozing everyone in their path because they think no one else deserves to take up space. Did you note the AI logos on their stupid pullovers?”

“That figures.” I frowned into my coffee. “I probably won’t have a job much longer thanks to that shit. Who needs a data analyst when you can have a hallucinating machine spit out nonsense?”

“Now I really wish that one dickhead had tried it.” Dee set her latte down. “Just this week, AI fucked me over and I got yelled at for it. They’ve been pushing for us to use it in our charting at the hospital, but it keeps changing my notes to nonsense no matter how much I double-check.”

“This shit is a virus.” Rafael frowned into his coffee cup. “Replicating our creative DNA to eat us alive from within.”

“That’s so emo. Is that why you wear all black?” she teased.

He huffed. “I lack your denim matching skills.”

I couldn’t help myself. “He’s my big tiddy goth boyfriend.”

Rafael stared up at the ceiling, patently ignoring our middle school snickering. Dee and I chewed on our pancakes. They were the perfect blend of fluffy, sweet, and chewy.

I almost blurted out something about his failed abduction attempt and veered off at the last moment. “How did your meeting go in LA? What did you call it, spotting?”

“A spotting session. I watch the film or game footage with the director, and we make decisions about the music.”

“How does your big ass fit on a plane?” Deandra interrupted.

“First class or private charter. I met with Kathy Friedman—my favorite director to work with. Gives me complete creative freedom and has an impeccable ear, unlike the majority.” Rafael grinned. “You would like her. Chain-smoking Jewish lady in her late 60s from Manhattan. She calls me Bubbeleh and always asks if I am getting any good pussy.”

I choked on my coffee.

Howling, Deandra slapped the table, stood up, and did a little spin. “She does not! What do you say to her?”

Rafael dialed up his accent, theatrically placing a hand over his heart. “I say, ‘not since you ruined me for other women, kuzum. Shall we run away together?’”

Dee smacked my arm repeatedly, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. I fought off a round of hilarity-induced hiccups.

“Kathy acts scandalized and says she is a married woman, even though her husband is a putz.”

“What does kuzum mean?” I asked when I could finally breathe again.

“‘My lamb’.”

Rafael picked up the seasonal menu, producing a pair of black-rimmed readers from his pocket. I held my breath as he perched them on the bridge of his nose.

Deandra shot me a knowing look. “Not the slutty little glasses! That’s her Kryptonite.”

Rafael blinked and set the menu down. “Excuse me?”

“You have the perfect nose for glasses, and they’re little and, um. Slutty,” I squeaked. Wait, was he wearing those to read my book? God, I am hornier than a teenager.

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Sounds like some internet bullshit. How long have you two known each other?”

“Laney and I have been friends since we roomed together freshman year at UCSC. We were fish out of water. She was fresh from Alabama, and me from Mississippi, neither of us on good terms with our families—her parents are religious assholes, and mine didn’t want a queer daughter. We bonded over gaming. I was gonna be an art major, remember that?” She grabbed my arm and playfully shoved me. “We both got the minor instead.”

I giggled agreement.