Page 111 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

Together, we transfer an extremely illegal assortment of weapons from the shitbox’s trunk to mine. He starts toward the driver’s side, but I beat him to it, spinning the key on my finger. “I’ll drive.”

“By all means.” He smirks, getting into the passenger seat. Before he can buckle his seat belt, I’m tugging him across the console to capture his mouth with mine.

“For the record, you still owe me a date.” I pull away to whisper in his ear, “We made a deal.”

Epilogue

5 Months Later

The bell above the door jingles as I walk into the seedy Miami dive bar.

I bypass the scattered tables and slide onto a barstool with cracked turquoise leather. The place is empty aside from a group of motorcyclists crowded around a table in the far corner and the bartender. The sparse crowd would be unusual given it’s a balmy Friday night, but the weather alerts threatening a torrential downpour have likely scared off the bar’s regulars.

“Order?” the bartender asks. A sun-faded baseball cap is pulled low on his head, hiding his eyes.

“Fries and a marg would be great. Salt rim, please.”

He nods gruffly, shouting to the line cook through the swinging kitchen door to put some fries on. As he whips up my beverage, I let my eyes rove over to the other patrons. The motorcycle club is composed of two men and two women clad in matching black leather vests with snakes embroidered on the back. They all sport sunglasses despite the neon signs and scattered hanging lights not being particularly bright.

“What’s in that?” One of the men catches my wandering gaze and nods at the poster carrier slung over my back. He has a handlebar mustache and tattooed sleeves up both arms, one of which is resting across the back of a woman with bleached blond hair.

“I’m an art student at U Miami,” I say, patting the plastic cylinder. “It’s a project.”

“Fries are comin’.” The bartender sets my drink in front of me.

“Thanks.” I take a sip and grimace. “Sorry, I asked for a salt rim, not sugar.”

He ignores me and grabs my fries, which have appeared in the order window, unceremoniously dropping the red-and-white container in front of me. Steam rises off the glistening grease. I pinch one between my fingers and take a bite, burning my tongue.

“Got any salt and pepper?” I ask the bartender, raising my voice so he can’t avoid me this time.

“Table.” He jerks his head toward one of the empty tables. I grab the salt- and pepper shakers from it, generously dousing my fries before setting them next to my drink.

“Slow night, huh?” I say around a mouthful of greasy, potato-ey goodness.

“Storm’s coming,” is all he says. A sound from the kitchen makes us both jump, like something falling to the floor. “Hey, what’s goin’ on back—”

His reprimand breaks into a startled bark as I reach for my marg but knock over the saltshaker. It spills onto the counter, crystals scattering across the bar. He jumps back, colliding with the shelves lined with liquor bottles behind him. They teeter precariously.

“Shit, sorry,” I apologize, taking a pinch and tossing it over my shoulder. “I’m so clumsy.”

“Watch where you’re throwing that stuff!” the other man hollers at me.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, meeting his Ray-Ban–covered gaze. The thing is, I didn’t throw it nearly far enough to reach their table. But he’s not at the table anymore. None of them are. Instead, they’ve formed a loose half circle around me. “Couldn’t risk the bad luck.”

The woman beside him tugs her white shirt over her nose. “What is that smell?”

I pull a tube out of my jean jacket pocket. “Probably my lotion. It’s white tea and sage.”

She recoils and the bartender gags. I turn to him. “Not a fan of white tea?”

“Not a fan of sage,” he grunts, wiping down the bar.

“How about obsidian?”

His head snaps up, finally giving me a view of his eyes. The whites are nearly nonexistent, and his irises are as black as tar.

“Who are you?” he asks.