Page 96 of Lethal in Pink

Her eyes do that thing—a quick, sweeping assessment that runs from my face down to my shoes and back, processing the whole package in one efficient scan—before she leans one shoulder against the doorframe.

“And you’re on time,” she says.

She grabs her small pink bag off the console, slides past me into the hall, and pulls the door shut. The deadbolt throws itself home with a heavy, final thunk.

We take the elevator down in silence, her heels clicking against the tile as we cross the lobby and step out into the lot. I beat her to the passenger side, pulling the handle and bracing a hand on the roof.

She stops dead, giving me that flat, unimpressed look she uses for my routine heroics.

“Really?”

“Trying to be a gentleman.”

“You’re standing in the way of me getting in the car.”

“I’m holding the door.”

“You’re blocking the door.”

I step aside. She slides past, her shoulder brushes my chest on the way in, and buckles up with a sharp, crisp click. I close her door and walk around to the driver's side, fighting a grin I’ve stopped trying to hide.

I merge onto Santa Monica, pushing east past the gas stations and strip malls as the LA evening settles into a thick, exhaust-heavy heat. Amiyah cranks her window down halfway, letting the rush of traffic noise and warm asphalt air hit the cabin. Her buttery golden blonde hair whips loose from its clip, sticking to her cheek in long strands that she doesn't bother tucking back.

We find parking two blocks down from the theater, wedging the car into a space so narrow I have to climb out through the passenger door. Amiyah watches with the vindictive satisfaction of someone proven right about my spatial awareness.

“Parallel parking isn't exactly your strongest flex,” she says, stepping onto the curb.

“Next time, park it yourself.”

“I would, but you insisted on driving.”

“Because you drive like you’re fleeing a crime scene.”

“Efficiency,” she corrects, walking ahead toward the theater entrance. “You drive like you’re being paid by the hour.”

I can’t help but to laugh.

God, I have fucking missed her so much.

The lobby smells like popcorn butter and carpet cleaner. Amiyah beelines for the concession stand, ordering a large popcorn and a large soda. I grab a black coffee—not that I need it at this hour. We find two seats dead center in the middle row, because Amiyah has structural opinions about theater acoustics that she has explained on three separate occasions.

The previews roll. The theater fills with the muffled, collective rustle of a hundred people settling into the dark.

Amiyah’s shoulder presses against mine. Solid, warm.

Twenty minutes in, the protagonist makes a catastrophically stupid decision on screen, walking right into an obvious trap.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, leaning in close. “Is this supposed to be the smartest person in the agency?”

“Shh.”

“He literally left his burner phone on the kitchen counter. That’s not even a tactical error, that’s just bad writing.”

“The director is seventy years old, Jae. Let him live.”

“He has a multi-million-dollar budget and he’s letting the hero outsmart a tactical unit by hiding behind a potted plant. A middle-schooler playing Call of Duty has better survival instincts.”

She doesn't even look away from the screen. “Keep talking and I’m making you drive me home in absolute, suffocating silence.”