Page 51 of Lethal in Pink

We stop at a kennel halfway down. The dog inside is medium-sized, some kind of shepherd mix with a shaved patch on its flank and a plastic cone around its neck. It sees us and immediately presses its full weight against the door, tail thumping the mat with desperate enthusiasm.

“Hello there,” I say softly, extending my hand toward the wire mesh.

The dog’s tongue finds the gap in the grate and licks my palm. I can’t stop the smile that hits my face.

“You are the cutest,” I murmur.

The dog responds by pressing harder, its entire body vibrating with the effort of expressing joy within a three-foot space. Something in my chest gives way in a manner I am completely unprepared for.

“She likes you,” Jae says. He hasn’t looked up from his chart, his pen moving across the paper in quick, efficient notations. “Dogs are good judges of character. Usually.”

I withdraw my hand slowly. The dog whines, leaning into the empty space.

“Her judgment is terrible,” I say. “I’m objectively unlikeable.”

Now he looks up. His dark eyes find mine over the top of the clipboard, warm and slightly challenging.

“Even animals can see you’re not as cold as you like to act, hotshot.”

“The dog is on pain medication,” I counter, keeping my tone clipped. “Its judgment is chemically compromised.”

He laughs. The sound is rich and smooth, like melted honey, and a sudden, sharp drop of heat hits me low in my stomach before settling deep between my thighs.

Shit.

Get a fucking grip on your vagina, Amiyah. Have you no self-control?

A cold spike of panic washes over my system. I am not used to losing control, and this infuriatingly fuckable man is unraveling my composure thread by thread. I can't afford to look at him like this. I can’t afford a distraction and that’s exactly what he’s becoming.

“I—I have to go,” I say, taking a step back. “I really have to study for an upcoming assignment in Criminal Theory.”

Jae pauses, his pen hovering mid-note. He doesn't press or pry. His dark eyes just search my face for a quiet second, taking in the sudden rigidness of my posture.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll walk you out.”

“It’s okay! You don’t have to do that. I can let myself out.”

The words come out too fast, too sharp. The air in this narrow hallway is suffocatingly thin, and the walls of my carefully constructed compartments are warping around me.

Jae holds my gaze, a quiet nod confirming he sees the retreat for what it is. “Okay. I’ll see you in class, Amiyah.”

“Yeah. See you.”

I turn on my heel and march toward the exit with the deliberate, measured pace of a woman who is absolutely, under no circumstances, fleeing for her life.

The afternoon sun hits me like a physical blow when I push through the front doors. I blink, disoriented, the warm glow of the pet hospital’s lights still burning against my retinas. My feet carry me across the quad on autopilot, my left hand white-knuckled around the strap of my tote bag, my right hand twisting a strand of my blonde hair around my index finger so tightly the tip goes numb.

I need to recalibrate. Fast.

Chapter seventeen

Amiyah

The bar doesn't just play music; it pounds it through the floorboards until the liquid in my glass ripples in concentric, anxious circles. Neon pulses through the fogged front window—a dirty magenta, then electric cobalt, then a sickly green that paints the teeth of everyone around me in shades of enamel rot.

I drag my thumb along the rim of my glass. It sticks, pulling away with a faint, tacky snap. A single rag hasn't touched this laminate since happy hour started, but I’m not here to critique the sanitation. I’m here to occupy space.

Our table was built for two. There are five of us, which turns sitting here into an ongoing, silent war of elbows. I’ve carved out roughly eleven inches of territory, anchored on the left by a sodden napkin and on the right by the rigid angle of my forearm. My vodka soda sits at two o’clock. The ice melted twenty minutes ago into a flat, lukewarm haze. I haven't taken more than three micro-sips. The glass isn't a drink; it's an anchor. A prop to keep my hands busy so nobody asks why they aren't moving.