Page 51 of Amber Gambler

The call ended on her breathy laughter.

Lost in thought, I didn’t register Kierce’s arrival until he touched my elbow. “Oh. Hey. Sorry.”

Holding his arms out to his sides, he turned a slow circle. “What do you think?”

The dark wash jeans fit him like a glove, and the simple white tee hugged his trim figure.

“I like it.” I stalled out at his addition to the ensemble. “Where did you get that overshirt?”

“Someone left it in the changing room.” He flicked up his collar. “I don’t see why.”

Had I any lingering doubts someone else had been dressing him, he crushed them on the spot. Of all the accessories to fall in love with, he had to find an ocean-blue Hawaiian shirt stamped with pink hula girls, yellow surfboards, and neon-green palm fronds.

Whoever had tried it on before him must have gotten smacked down by someone with better taste and left it behind. But the childlike pride on Kierce’s face at having chosen his own clothes was infectious. As much as I would rather see him in a bowling shirt or flannel or literally anything else, in that moment, I couldn’t have told him no for the world. Even if I’d had the right to steer him toward better fashion choices, and I didn’t, it did my heart good to see someone embrace what caught their eye without first weighing it against popular trends or public opinion.

No one should have to fear the consequences of being their truest, most genuine self.

“It looks good on you.” I pressed his arms back down to his sides. “Are you ready to go?”

With a predatory gleam, he scanned the men’s department. “Do you think they have more of these?”

“Nope.” Okay. Fine. I’m a horrible person. “I don’t see any.”

Probably because I was staring at our cart to avoid any possible chance of my gaze landing on one.

“Pity.” He smoothed a hand over his stomach. “Can I wear this out of the store?”

“Bring me the tags and your old clothes, and you’ll be fine.” I waited while he gathered his things. I had already sourced a shopping bag from behind the unmanned counter. We tucked away the pajamas, tied it shut, then headed up front to self-check. “How do the shoes feel?”

To be on the safe side, I had advised him to buy one pair of sneakers and one pair of steel-toe boots.

Just in case he decided to shadow me at work or got curious about the mechanics of modern vehicles.

“I think I’m going to like sneakers.” He decided to wear those out. “They don’t pinch my toes.”

“Your dress shoes hurt your feet?”

“Yes.”

In the time I had known him, he must have gone through ten pairs. Maybe he had been hoping that if he burned through enough of them, he would be given something else. “Then why did you wear them?”

“It was expected of me.”

Expectations could build a person up, but they could tear them down just as easily. They cost the person whose shoulders strained under the burden more than the person who placed them there. That pressure conformed us. Honed us. Sometimes, it even destroyed us.

“Frankie?”

“We should get moving.” I breathed through a tightness in my chest I couldn’t understand. “Carter called and asked me to visit the 514’s morgue.”

“This is about your case.” He rubbed a coconut-husk button between his fingers. “The missing girls.”

“Yes.” I hung back before we hit the bottleneck of shoppers. “Do you want me to drop you off first?”

“I would rather go with you.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I might be of some use.”

Subtle reminders of his powers, and how they overlapped mine, still managed to catch me off guard.

“Huh.” I pushed us into line. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

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