Page 23 of Bulletproof

That sounded really good. I had been ditching my friends, ignoring invitations, just sort of walking around in a funk for almost four months. The idea of going out with people who didn’t know me and who wouldn’t press me for answers that I didn’t have was somewhat appealing. It was like I could quit being me for a second.

“And the gazpacho there is incredible.”

I was warming to the idea. It was still early, and he was harmless after all.

“I’ll drive.”

“Agreed.” His eyes darkened, turning almost black. “You drive; I’ll navigate.”

“Deal,” I said, noticing again how dark and deep his eyes were. The way he was studying me, after a minute, I had to smile. “What are you trying to figure out?”

“Nothing. Come,” he said as Adan and Paz appeared like they had been waiting somewhere close, hovering, listening for their cue to return. “Let’s go.”

As we walked toward my car, he reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. The man was very demonstrative, and you could tell it was just him and didn’t really mean a whole lot. And it was kind of nice, so I let it go. What harm could it do?

I was directed to drive to the Chicago Harbor, where the Dog Star was anchored. I actually had a nice talk with Cristo in my ancient Toyota Corolla wagon on the long drive from Highland Park. Eddie and everyone else followed behind, his brother having allowed no one else to ride with us.

I had him in stitches, explaining about the horrors of Mr. Fisher’s home, his eyes huge when I talked about the giant spool. When I had him get my camera bag out of the back, I pulled up the pictures at the next stoplight, wanting him to see for himself.

“Holy shit,” he breathed out, “I thought you were making it worse than it really was.”

“Who needs to? Look at the macramé plant holder.”

“That’s just horrifying.”

I cackled.

“Jesus.” He was amazed and made me promise to show him the After photos when the renovations were done.

When we parked at the harbor, everyone joined us—a limousine full of people—and I noticed there were a lot of very attractive women in the bunch.

“Don’t feel like you gotta babysit me,” I told him, tipping my head toward a particularly leggy blonde who was giving him the eye.

He directed Eddie to make sure that neither the girl nor her friend slipped and fell in her heels. At the same time, he draped an arm around my shoulders.

We had to climb a ladder to get on the boat, yacht, whatever it was, and when Cristo chuckled below me, I asked him what was so funny.

“Not funny,” he assured me, “just the view is nice.”

I leaned down and flicked him on the forehead.

“Owww,” he said, laughing, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. “God, you’re an ass.”

“Exactly, so stop staring at mine.”

“I don’t think I can,” he growled. “You are put together really nicely, Angel.”

I flicked him again.

“What was that for?”

“Jory, not Angel.”

“For fuck’s sake, will you just get up there already?”

He was irritated, and I was pleased. Once we all got on deck, I heard the thump of the dance music, even through the closed door.

Inside, it was like a club—the low lights, people smashed together, the cloud of cigarette smoke, waiters moving through the crowd with drinks on trays. Pushing through the throng, I came to the edge of one floor and looked down into another, the sunken room not for dancing, but for entertaining.