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Lace shakes her head. Bleached strands of hair fall from her disheveled bun and stick under her chin, clinging to her golden, sweat-glossed skin. “He only knew of him. Jess and Gabe are shackin’ up. Kio made the connection at the event. Apparently, Gabe is a new prospect for the Rolling Stones, too. He was wearing a cut at the event. Know anything about that?”
“I know he was at the polic—”
Lace freezes and her eyes widen.
Shit. Why the hell would I even let that slip?! Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Her gaze tracks over my face, no doubt searching for the rest of the answer, but she surprisingly refrains from pressing any further. Instead, Lace reveals, “I know what you guys do. Ironically, I happen to know about a recent incident that occurred at the department, too. Not from a Hell for Leather member, though. Rest assured.”
Her attention moves to the bartop. She lifts the tumbler, peels away the napkin from the bottom, places the glass down again, and brings the damp paper to my bottom lip. She parts her mouth to say something but changes her mind and starts dabbing gently at the wound.
Thankful for the change of subject, taking a stab in the dark that she might want details about why I was hiding in the corner watching her like a creepy stalker, I mumble out, “Coty really cares about you. You know that.”
The rotating light show turns red at the most ironic time, right as a flame of anger flashes in her eyes. There is a brief, almost miniscule flattening of her lips and flare of her nose, but instead of voicing any frustration, she simply nods and says, “Yeah, I do.”
I try hard to continue the conversation without moving my mouth much as she uses her nail with the napkin as a buffer to carefully scrape off more crusted blood. “He would probably be here himself, if he could.”
Her lips quirk to the side, and a quiet huff puffs from her nose. “You have no idea why he had to send you, do you?” I shake my head a little. “How does that make you feel? Being left in the dark by your brothers like that?”
Sensing her blood is coming to a slow simmer with the topic, I wrap my hand around her wrist, thumb pressed into the center of her palm, and pull back. “Protocol, Lace. I feel fine with it. How does it feel knowing more than I do about something that clearly happened involving you and not being able to confide in me — someone, anyone — because of the same protocol?”
Her jaw clenches, giving even more striking definition to her face. There it is, finally a full-fledged reaction. She overcomes the slip quickly, of course. “You know—” Lace lifts her opposite hand, drags her thumb along the length of her tongue, and starts using the saliva on the pad instead of the napkin to finish tending to my lip “—I really hoped your sweet, innocent disposition would stick around for a while. Seems that poison Hell for Leather administers to anyone who crosses their path contaminated you hard and fast.”
Not sure what to say, I simply open my mouth, hoping the words will come on their own. Big mistake. Lace brushes along the shape of my split lip and slips her thumb slowly into my mouth. Her fingers uncurl, lengthening along my jaw as the pad of her thumb finds my tongue and swirls around it.
Lace leans in until we are nose to nose, tilts her head to the side, hooks her thumb behind my bottom teeth, and applies enough pressure to open my mouth wide enough to swipe her tongue inside. Thumb still hooked, she pulls back long enough to whisper, “Good thing for you, I happen to really like the contaminated ones.”
The emphasis she applies and how she moves in afterward for an all-consuming kissgoes straight between my legs. I shift on the stool, release her wrist, and my hands dart up to cup her cheeks. Having her face between both of my palms fills me with a thrilling sense of possession.
Kissing her is easier this time. Doing it is familiar. No one is around.
I feel…
I feel…
I fe—
Oh, God. There was more than alcohol in that drink. “L-Lace, Y-y-you dru—” I slur, unable to get out any more syllables, my tongue suddenly the weight of a brick in my mouth.
No, no, no! Panic seizes my chest because I have no idea what to do or how to handle this. My phone weighs down my breast pocket like a handful of stones, and while my lax fingers itch to pull it out, my hands now feel even heavier than my tongue. I know my time is growing limited.
Lace tenses, gaze flicking to my jacket as though she read my mind. We both move at the same time, but because she is of a more sound mind, she is quicker and removes both my personal phone and the burner from my inside pocket in an instant. In the next heartbeat, both devices go flying down the length of the counter, out of reach. I sway on the stool, and Lace hops off the bartop to steady me, her small hands gripping my arms as my body droops against her.
The last thing I see before everything goes black is the thick teardrop that drips off her trembling lip. “I am so sorry,” are the last whispered words that meet my ears.
