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I pull my hand away, managing a smile.
“Come on,” Erik says, offering me his hand. I accept it, thanking the refugee for his information. The man’s face stays gray in the halogen of the fading lighting system. We have enough time to find the bar he’s talking about, on First Avenue, before the streets go dark at curfew.
“Want to grab a drink?” Erik asks, threading my arm around his.
“Erik, you read my mind.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SPEAKEASY IS DARK, LIT BY SMALL solar sconces along the walls. High booths afford their occupants privacy, and a few eyes twitch up to meet my curious gaze as we pass each booth. We both immediately look away, uncomfortable. This isn’t the kind of place you come to make friends. Erik’s hand presses into my upper arm, shepherding me forward until we find an empty booth near the back. I sit down. Erik slides in, hesitating for a second before he scoots right next to me.
“It’s better if we look like we’re together,” he says.
“Better for who?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow, challenging him to come up with a reasonable response.
“For both of us,” he says. “People don’t bother couples on dates.”
“Ahh,” I say with a sigh. “Sure.”
“Plus, you make me look good.”
I frown, but he hangs an arm casually around my shoulder. He’s pretending, but I can’t help but realize I like how his arm feels there. Safe, warm.
“What’s this?” Erik says. He traces the crook of my elbow.
His fingertips sear my skin, and I gasp, shaking my head, trying to focus. Dark flecks pepper my pale arm around a thin red scratch, but I barely notice them since I’m consumed with the fire scorching under my skin.
“Freckles,” I say, pulling my arm away, unsure where the scratch came from.
“Those aren’t freckles,” Erik says. “Are you being careful during training?”
“I don’t remember hurting myself, but it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt,” I assure him.
“What’ll ya have?” a waitress asks in possibly the most bored tone ever. She could pass for a stewardess in Arras except her skirt stops too short, revealing more of her lengthy legs than I’m used to. Her head cocks to the side, examining the small platform stage behind her.
“What do you have?” Erik asks.
“Same as everywhere, hon,” she says with a shrug, her eyes still occupied elsewhere. “Gin. Whiskey. Moonshine.”
“Moonshine?” he asks.
“I didn’t make up the name,” she says.
She couldn’t have, I think. She’s probably never seen the moon. I can’t imagine she’s gone exploring past the Interface’s border.
“Gin. Do you have tonic?”
“Sure, sure.” She doesn’t write anything down, but I hear her call out the order to the stubby bartender.
“So what now?” Erik asks, turning his attention back to me. His voice is low.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure.”
“You know, your mother was probably toying with you,” Erik says gently.
“I know.” But the words are thick on my tongue. I don’t like thinking of the monster wearing my mother’s face.
The waitress plops down two smudged glasses and asks what else we need.
