Page 12 of Bloody Lace

I twist around, shutting off the water abruptly as I scramble out of the shower, still dripping wet. I grab a towel, wrapping it around myself as I yank the door open and scurry out, coming face to face with Dahlia standing in my tiny kitchen as I drip puddles all over the floor.

She’s still in her sparkly party dress, her hair in perfect old Hollywood waves, her lipstick not even smudged. She’s holding a paper bag in her arms, and she gives me a long, assessing look.

“You didn’t text me,” she says accusingly. “Your shop burned down, and you didn’t call? Evie?—”

“I didn’t want to ruin your party.” I shake my head, confused. “How did you find out? How are you here? I?—”

“Fuck the party,” Dahlia says emphatically.

“Dolly—” My old nickname for her in college slips out, and she smiles.

“Seriously, Evie. Fuck the party. Why would I care about that when something horrible has happened to my best friend?” She puts the paper bag down on the counter, and I hear the hardthunkof glass bottles inside. “I brought liquor. Vodka, gin, and bourbon. Pick your poison.”

“How are you here?” I repeat, utterly confused. “Did you look at the location tracking, or—” We’ve always had location sharing on each other’s phones, for the sole purpose of making sure that the other is safe on a date. But I never go on dates, and I was pretty sure that Dahlia had forgotten we ever activated that.

“I got a call.” She flips on the kitchen light, bathing the room in a fluorescent glow. “I answered it because you left so abruptly, and I thought maybe it was the cops or something. You said one called you about an emergency. But it was some guy with a Russian accent. I almost hung up on him, but he said he’d just dropped you off near your apartment. And he thought I should go check on you.”

I stare at Dahlia, feeling as if my eyes are going to pop out of my head. “Dimitricalledyou?”

“Is that his name? Did you get a boyfriend and not tell me?” Her forehead wrinkles as she narrows her eyes at me. “I’ve literally never been angry at you, Evie, but if you’re keeping yourlove lifefrom me?—”

“I’m not.” I shake my head rapidly. “He’s that guy I met at the party last year. The one I almost fell into. He—” I take a deep breath, feeling a headache coming on as I explain to Dahlia what Dimitri told me. “I guess you were right about the Bratva being a real thing. And he’s the son of the guy in charge, or so he says.”

“Since he found out who your best friend was and got my number—or I assume, had one of his guys on it and got that information from him—in that short a time, I’d believe him.” Dahlia yanks the bottle of bourbon open, pouring a slug into two mugs that she grabs out of my cupboard, and hands me one. “Drink this.”

One hand still holding my towel up, I obey mutely. It’s good bourbon, but it still burns all the way down, and I cough, handing the mug back to Dahlia.

“Do you want gin next, or do you want?—”

“Just a second—” I cough again, holding up a finger. “Slow down. I need a minute to process all of this. I’m still stuck on the part where Dimitri found out who you were andcalledyou.”

“It’s a little sweet, if you think about it.” Dahlia uncaps a ginger beer, topping off her bourbon with it and leaning her elbows on the counter as she takes a sip. “And also stalker-y. But I don’t think men like that think about those things. They just have the resources, so they use them. But he clearly went to some effort for you. He sounded—worried.” She cocks her head slightly. “Thus why I thought you were keeping something from me about your love life.”

I shake my head. “No. But—he did make me an offer.”

“I would hope so, since this was clearly his fault.” Dahlia sniffs. “You’re caught in the middle of all of this. He should make it right.”

“He wants me to marry him.”

Now it’s Dahlia’s turn to cough. “What?” she splutters, setting down her mug. “Marryhim?”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Actually, I think I will take another drink.”

“I’ll make you one of these.” She points to her glass. “And while I do, go dry off and get dressed. You’re making a puddle all over your floor.”

The direction helps. I nod, finding it much easier in this particular moment to follow what she’s telling me to do rather than figure it out on my own. I head back down what could barely be called a hall into my closet-sized bedroom—my apartment is technically a studio, but has a couple of walls up to putsomedefinition in the space—and dry off roughly beforegrabbing a pair of leggings and a loose tunic-style wool sweater. Normally I put in effort to put together outfits even at home—fashion is a comfort to me, and always has been—but right now I’m too exhausted to care. The dark brown sweater is ratty, but it’s one of my favorites, and I sink into it, tugging the sleeves over my hands as I go back out to where Dahlia is waiting.

“He asked you to marry him,” she repeats, leading me over to my small sofa next to the window that overlooks the fire escape and the city outside. “Why on earth? No offense, Evie,” she adds with a small laugh. “But it’s a strange thing for him to offer, in his position.”

“He said he’s stuck in an engagement he doesn’t want. I guess this gets him out of it. And in exchange, he said he’ll pay for everything that needs to be fixed in the shop. Not just that, either.” I hesitate, taking a sip of my drink. “He said he’ll do whatever I want to it. No expense spared. I can do anything.”

Dahlia lets out a slow, heavy breath, and I know she’s thinking the same thing that I am. “If you said no, what happens to the shop?” she asks quietly. “Your insurance?—”

“It won’t be enough.” I swallow hard, fighting the urge to cry again. “It might make up for some of my losses. Clients I’ll have to refund, what I still owe on the building—but I won’t be able to fix it up. It took a huge loan and all the savings I had to even get started. I was lucky that I did well enough to keep going.” My heart aches as I keep speaking. “I’m not going to get that lucky a second time.”

Dahlia bites her lip, swirling her drink in its glass. “What about your parents? Would they be able to help?”

I shake my head. “They don’t have that kind of money. And even if they did—they weren’t very supportive of it to start. The best they could do is cosign another loan, and I know they’re not going to do that. Especially when I might still owe some on the original even with the insurance payout. They’ll tell me to ‘geta real job’. They never thought this was going to be sustainable long term.” I take a sip, relishing the burn of the bourbon this time. “I hate that they’re going to be proven right.”

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