Page 116 of Double Bucked

“It’s busy,” I comment.

“Everyone’s excited for the festival tomorrow. Limited service in the meantime.”

We enter the dining hall with its round, white-clothed tables, where Claire and I came with her Promise Sisters. Also where Claire sat in my lap and clenched around me over sorbet.

Focus.

A chandelier blooms above the space, but it fills mostly with the natural light of the curved, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the arena. The brunch crowd is familiar, everyone dressed in their regal best. Claire’s “sisters” are at a table in the corner, and when they see us, Elspeth breaks into a wild wave.

I adjust my glasses on my face. As I do, I pinch the rim where it folds around my ears, activating the small camera. It’ll take a series of pictures and shoot them off to the Wolfpack, where they can analyze the faces for any suspicious characters.

I wager there are more than a few in this bunch.

I’m particularly interested in the arrival of the special security—men in dark suits who hover against the wallpaper like mute statues. Brunch seems like a peculiar place to need firearms.

Arris guides us to an empty table by the window, but Claire catches his wrist. “Arris. I was hoping we could sit down and talk. It’s important.”

He gives her hand a squeeze. “Of course. Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to the buffet. I’ll be right with you.”

He parts ways with us.

“Thirsty?” I ask Claire.

“Just a sweet tea,” she replies.

“I’ve got it,” Ransom and I say at the same time.

The Promise Sisters are descending. We both break to go to the buffet table, which sits adjacent to the windows. It’s piled with mini sandwiches, finger foods, and a host of drinks.

Ransom beats me to the tea (bastard), so I collect three glasses of water.

“You should unbutton your shirt,” Ransom tells me. “You’re looking a little stiff.”

My gaze flickers to him. Specifically, to the handkerchief around his neck. “Blue. Interesting choice.”

“How’s that?”

“Have you heard of the hanky-code?”

“The what?”

“In the seventies, queer people would safely flirt by wearing handkerchiefs. It was dubbed flagging. The different colors signified different intimate acts they were comfortable performing. The position of the handkerchief denoted giving or receiving.”

“What’s blue mean?”

“Anal sex.” I hold his eye contact, unflinching. “Bottoming.”

His expression sours. “You’re making that up.”

“Am I?”

As I lift the glasses to take them back to the table, I hear Ransom mutter, “Dammit,” before removing his handkerchief and stuffing it in his pocket.

I have to work hard to keep the smirk off my lips.

When I return to the table, the girls are all standing around together. I set the waters down, and Ransom gives Claire her tea.

“Riley Ransom!” Mary-Kate exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

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