Page 58 of UNAwere

‘Every time we’ve eaten somewhere, you’ve ordered the same as me.’

‘No, I had steak the other night, while you ate salad.’

‘I think that’s only because you’re offended by green things.’

‘Not true. Your eyes are the least offensive thing I know,’ he murmurs.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I dip my chin, beginning to eat my nachos.

We eat mostly in silence. And when we’re done, Briggs helps me off my chair and takes me over to the bar, to where the live music grows loud and the crowd gets rowdier. His hand rests against the small of my back, and I bite my tongue against how good it feels.

We find a table, close to the stage. There’s a band playing old classics, and people are dancing. I climb up on the stool and sit, but Briggs stays standing and leans close. I shiver, feeling his mouth come close to my ear.

‘What’re you drinking?’

I turn my head to reply, and our noses bump.

I fumble, apologising, and he blinks, taking a small step back.

‘Beer,’ I say, awkwardly gesturing a drinking motion, as if it’ll help.

He nods and heads to the bar.

When he’s gone, I look back at the stage, watching the band perform and smiling to myself. Everyone in the room are Weres, and I notice how they act differently to what I’ve seen in Luminaire: Couples, unafraid to show PDA; Turned Weres padding across the dance floor to head outside. I spy a few men at a table across from the dance floor looking my way, and quickly avert my gaze.

Briggs comes back with two beers and sets mine on the table in front of me. I grin and take a sip. It’s been a while since I’ve drunk anything, and it feels good to be able to relax. And if I can, I want to get drunk and completely wipe my memory of today.

‘So, what was it like, growing up in Primrose?’ I ask him.

He sips at his beer, smoothing his bottom lip over his moustache to collect the foam. I ignore the flutter that action causes down there.

‘Fine.’

‘Are your parents still alive?’

He shakes his head. ‘Only my mother.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

A crease appears between his brows. ‘Sybbie, you lost two. I should be the one that’s sorry.’

‘Grief isn’t comparative,’ I say, shrugging.

‘No,’ he agrees.

‘When did your father die?’

‘Not too long ago. I was thirty-five.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘He got cancer.’ Briggs strokes his hand over his beard, his eyes scanning the crowd. They seem to land on the table of men that were watching me before, and his expression shifts. But then he focuses his attention back on me. ‘I didn’t see him before he passed. Hadn’t. Not in about ten years.’

‘You didn’t have a good relationship?’ I ask.

‘No.’ He touches the scar on his face, an unconscious action, and I remember how he said it was from his dad. The skin along my spine prickles.

‘Have you always worked for Warner?’ I ask.