Page 253 of End Game

Dex hits the elevator button.

The elevator requires our key before it lets us select the floor.

Naturally.

I lean against the wall beside him. “You’re not very subtle.”

“I have never once claimed to be subtle, Dollface.”

The doors close.

Dex immediately starts pacing the six square feet available. “I just think there's a lot of pressure when the guy who invited you into a studio also technically controls where you sleep.”

Micah looks at him. “No, there isn't.”

“You're ruining my narrative.”

“You've been listening to the song for nine days.”

“Seven.”

“It's been nine.”

Dex frowns.

“I started obsessively listening seven days ago. There is a distinction.”

I laugh.

He's not exaggerating.

The song has been playing everywhere.

In the kitchen.

In his bedroom.

He has also complained about the bridge approximately forty-seven times.

Sometimes out loud.

Sometimes through aggressive facial expressions.

Once by walking into the living room and announcing, “It emotionally plateaus and I hate that for everyone involved.”

So yes.

He's nervous—but he's not unprepared.

The suite is enormous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame downtown Chicago. The living room could comfortably fit our entire household. There's a wet bar, dining table, two bathrooms, and a bedroom with a king bed big enough to host a small congressional hearing.

Dex walks straight to the windows. “Oh, fuck me.”

Micah drops his bag beside the couch. “Later.”

Dex turns.