Page 9

I still hate you. But I’m keeping your number. Don’t get smug.

Another message follows before I can even answer.

And never put a Black woman in a Confederate coffin again, you walking HR violation.

I bark a laugh.

Nevermore’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Was that her?”

“Maybe.”

“She threatening to sue?”

“Flirting.”

“She stormed out mad.”

“Women multitask.”

He takes the phone out of my hand because apparently being VP gives a man suicidal bravery. He reads the screen. His mouth twitches, and he fights it like laughter is against club policy.

“She called you a walking HR violation.”

“Yeah.”

“That might be the most accurate fucking thing anyone’s ever said about you.”

I snatch my phone back. “Jealousy is ugly on you.”

“Common sense is wasted on you.”

I type back.

Wouldn’t dream of getting smug. My face just does this naturally.

Then, because I’m me, I add:

And next time I’ll pick the Elvis coffin.

She answers with three skull emojis and one middle finger.

I put the phone away feeling more pleased than I ought to. Not because I want to see her again. I don’t. Probably. Maybe for a repeat in a less politically doomed piece of funeral merchandise. But not because it means anything.

I don’t let women mean things.

Not anymore.

Nevermore watches me too close. He has done that since we were kids, even before the club, before the cuts, before our lives got tangled up with coffins and brothers and secrets that can’t be confessed to nobody with a badge. He watches like he can see the bruise under the joke.

I hate that about him.

“You gonna keep doing this?” he asks.

“Texting women? Yeah. It’s called modern courtship.”