Page 59 of The Final Cut

Ever stands at the edge of the kitchen, arms folded across his chest, damp hair pushed back from his forehead. His eyes are tired. Mean tired. The kind a man gets when fear has been working him over for hours and no one has offered it a clean target.

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“I do.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Something passes between him and Nash. Small. Quick. Annoying.

My eyes narrow. “Why do I feel like I’ve walked into a conversation where I’m the only person who hasn’t been handed the script?”

Nash picks up his coffee again. “Because you’re dramatic.”

Ever’s mouth almost moves.

“You two were talking about me.”

“We spoke about the situation,” Nash says.

“What fucking situation?”

Ever comes farther into the kitchen. “You and Reva both need to get over yourselves.”

I blink at him while Nash drinks his coffee. The world has tilted.

“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “Could you repeat that? Reva can get pissed off at any one of you three, but not me?”

Nash sets his mug down with the air of a man unveiling a reasonable business strategy. “You need to make Reva understand who’s in charge.”

I stare at him. Then I look at Ever.

Ever nods. “Exactly.”

For a full second, my brain produces nothing.

Then I laugh. It comes out too sharp. “You have both lost your ever-loving minds.”

Nash’s expression does not change. “I’m serious.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

“She pushes because everyone braces.” Nash lifts one shoulder. “Push back.”

“Wonderful. Practical. How do you propose I do that?”

Ever leans his hip against the island. “I mean, I did it yesterday by looking at her.”

My head turns slowly, incredulously. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” He actually pops the P. I am pretty sure I’ve never heard Ever pop a P in his life.

“You looked at her.”

“Through the window. Gave her one of those” —he makes a gesture, palm level to the ground— “looks, and she stripped off her clothes and beckoned me in.”

I hold up one hand. “Stop.”