Page 78 of Underground Prince

The snick of the lighter and her sigh told me our voyage to the backside was worth it. “Sweet bliss.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets, tucking my chin into my neck to keep in some heat. “I hope you’re enjoying your puffs over there.”

“And your friendship, of course.” She smiled through curls of smoke. “Thanks for coming out with me. We haven’t really talked alone for quite some time, huh?”

“We haven’t,” I agreed. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not expecting an apology.” She shoved my shoulder. “I miss you, is all. I miss us, our entourage…” Her eyes glazed over with memories, and I had to fight not to follow. “We’re never going to be the same, I know that. But I can still ache for it.”

“Me—” The word came out too rough, too emotional. I had to clear my throat before I could continue. “Me, too.”

“You do?” Her expression cleared, and after a smoky inhale, she said, “I don’t mean…well. I suck at this. I don’t mean to say that I wasn’t sure you did, but when it happened—no, after it happened, when you left, and we couldn’t contact you…”

“We should be able to say what it is now, shouldn’t we?” I said, but I asked it to the sky, the clouds growing blurrier and murkier. “She’s dead.”

“Scarlet…” My name was nothing but a whisper of pain against her vocal cords. She reached for me—

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

The sudden metallic rattle had both of us spinning to the right. A truck in the driveway, silent and in shadow during our conversation, came alive under the deft movement of figures in black clothing, throwing open the trailer and revealing stacks of cardboard boxes.

“Supply boys,” Lila said beside me. “Is it me, or do they look like theatre workers being all quiet and shit while they fly around backstage?”

Yet she said it softly, as if afraid to disturb their work as well.

She wasn’t wrong, though. These men, at least four of them, moved with soft-footed speed, hauling boxes onto a small ramp where another one picked it up and handed it to another. No words were spoken, but the task was clear: get this done, and fast.

Someone loomed out of the bar’s loading dock, coming into the meager backlight.

I hissed and pulled Lila closer to the dumpsters, causing her to lose her cigarette in the process.

“Scar!” she scolded, but she also whispered. “What the hell?”

I shook my head in an I don’t know but it needed to happen gesture. I didn’t want to be noticed by Trace, especially back here, under the cover of night in his deserted loading dock. It was bloodcurdling enough to be the subject of his attention in a lit-up and happy crowded bar.

A box almost slipped from one of the worker’s arms, the tape ripping as he struggled to right it before handing it off.

“Careful, boys,” Trace said, and his voice was just as languid and relaxed as I thought it would be. An unhurried care that I bet remained intact even when he was chopping someone’s fingers off. “Khalaji will kill you for losing that and my father will feast on your soul.”

Trace leaped onto the truck the way a predator would move to get a better vantage point for its prey. I reacted by pressing harder against the brick wall, behind a dumpster, as if the rough cement could absorb me.

“Should we go back?” Lila asked, curling against my side.

A scent floated around us, carried by the cold wind, as Trace supervised more boxes to be lifted and carried into the bar. It was bitter, acrid, yet made my mouth water with the expected taste of it.

Coffee.

“I don’t give a shit about the packing, but try not to dent the containers,” Trace said. He wasn’t easily seen within the cave of the truck, but his outline cut through the black shade.

“We should go,” Lila tried saying again, but she didn’t move and neither did I.

“The espresso will remain undamaged.” Trace wasn’t making conversation. He was issuing orders, and the small group of men surrounding him reacted by moving faster, speaking mildly and only when it was required, but I caught bits of Spanish interspersed with their quick transfers.

“Espresso?” It was a question I posed more to myself than to Lila, but she responded with a soft, “Fuck if I know.”

Drip coffee, I could understand. Bars sometimes had it for the rare patron who wanted it paired with their billiards and Top 40 music. In my mind’s eye, I saw Drop Down’s bar, the row of liquor bottles, the taps of beer hidden halfway under the wooden varnish, and the mirrored panels and the shelving on either side, showcasing knickknacks that would only make sense to the owners, but no espresso maker or other fancy latte machinery.

Don’t be stupid, Letty.

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