Page 63 of Redline Communion

His face tightens.

“Hey.”

He crouches in front of me and rests his hands on my knees.

“You good?”

I laugh.

“What?”

“Everybody keeps asking me that.”

“Maybe there’s a reason.”

“I’m great. I’m so great, Rafe. You have no idea.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes move over my face, my nose, my jaw, the cup in my hand.

He knows what he’s looking at.

“Kiwi says you’ve been doing coke since you got here.”

“Kiwi’s a narc.”

“Kiwi’s worried about you.”

“Everybody’s always worried.”

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“Coke, Lo. How much?”

I look up at him too quickly and throw off my own balance. His grip tightens around me before I can stumble.

“No, Lo, it’s Lark.” I frown when his eyebrows shoot up. “Fine. Just a little.”

The giggle that comes out of me doesn’t help my case.

Rafe shakes his head, and something crosses his face — guilt, disappointment, fear, maybe all three. Even moving this fast, I know him well enough to recognize when he’s arguing with himself.

He’ll give me almost anything.

Even if what I’m asking for is another way not to think.

Rafe opens the door to an empty room and locks it behind us.

“Please, Rafe. I need you.”

He doesn’t move right away.

His jaw tightens while he looks at me, and I know exactly what he’s deciding: give me what I’m asking for, or do the responsible Rafe thing and get me water, sit me down, and wait until my brain belongs to me again.

I don’t want responsible Rafe.