Page 183 of What We Become

It’s not hard. The late-night crowd at Unholy Desires is a certain kind of animal, alive and hungry, and Milo doesn’t fit into it right now.

He usually fits everywhere.

Normally, he’s a chameleon, a shape-shifter, the kind of person who can slide into any room and have three conversations running before anyone realizes he wasn’t invited. But tonight his head is up and his eyes are sweeping the room, searching. The naked, writhing bodies scattered around him might as well not exist.

“Cover for me,” I say to the other bartender over my shoulder, not bothering to wait for the response before I move.

The lounge is all velvet darkness and amber light, bodies draped over furniture and each other, the low pulse of bass under everything. Usually Milo would make some comment about the acoustics of moaning or critique someone’s harness construction on his way in.

Tonight he barrels through the room like he can’t even see the people in front of him, colliding with one body after another.

“Sorry.”

“My bad.”

“Whoops-a-daisy!”

“Milo,” I call when I get close to him.

He turns, but his eyes don’t see me. They see past me.

Odin.

Milo makes a beeline for the booth where Odin is sitting with his companions.

I weave after him, losing him when a group of women in matching dresses tries to stop me. By the time I get free, Milo is murmuring into Odin’s ear. Odin excuses himself, gestures for Milo to follow, and heads for the corridor. I pick up the pace, but the meeting-room door closes before I reach it.

Shit.

I consider walking up and knocking, but Odin’s personal security takes up position outside the door, meaning no visitors allowed.

So I wait.

I lean against the wall and try to look as inconspicuous as possible. A woman in heels and a dress that’s doing a lot of structural engineering passes by and gives me a look that starts at my shoes and finishes somewhere around my jaw.

“Buy you a drink?” she asks.

I tap my mask. “I’m the bartender.”

“Even better. You can make it yourself.”

“Appreciate the offer. I’m waiting for someone.”

She moves on. Another woman pauses. Then a man. Then a couple who want to know if I’d like to watch them in a private room. I say no three times, smile four times, and keep my eyes on the door.

Seven minutes. Eight.

The door opens. Milo comes out. Eyes too bright, jaw too tight, hands moving at his sides like they’re looking for something to do.

“Milo.”

He startles. “Jesus, Micah. You can’t just lurk in corridors.”

“I can lurk in all spaces,” I say. “I’m talented that way.”

“You sure are.” Then he stops. Looks at me and recalibrates. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to turn down several propositions and redirect a lost couple to the bathroom.”