Page 32 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“I'll survive.”

“Not what I asked.”

Elliot leaned against the counter. Ronan glanced at him again. There were moments when Elliot hated how well Ronan watched him. Not because Ronan saw everything. Because he didn't. And sometimes Elliot couldn't decide whether that was disappointing or useful.

“You're staring,” Ronan said.

“You're pretty.”

Ronan snorted.

“Fuck off.”

“I mean it.”

“Go set the table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ronan pointed the wooden spoon at him.

“Don't.”

Elliot smiled and grabbed two plates. They ate at the kitchen island. Ronan complained about an architecture professor. Elliot complained about nothing. Outside, rain continued tapping against the carriage-house windows. For twenty minutes, Mason Kerr didn't exist. Neither did Detective Vance. Neither did the mask sitting somewhere inside Bellweather Police evidence storage with a new crack across its cheek. Then Ronan's phone lit up. A message appeared across the screen.

DYLAN: Friday. Don't bail again.

Elliot saw it. Ronan saw Elliot see it. Silence settled between them. Ronan turned the phone facedown. Elliot twirled pasta around his fork.

“Going?”

“Probably.”

“With him?”

“It's a party, Elliot.”

“You keep saying that like it answers the question.”

Ronan sighed.

“Don't start.”

Elliot looked at his plate. He could feel irritation returning beneath his ribs. Hot. Immediate. Embarrassingly easy.

“You promised you weren't sleeping with him.”

“I said I wouldn't.”

“So why go?”

“Because he's my friend.”

Elliot laughed softly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”