Page 49 of Veil of Death and Shadow

When I glanced up at her, my body relaxed, the anxiety immediately shifting to guilt when her expression made it clear she hadn't given her girlfriend’s offer more than a passing thought.

"And you say I have commitment issues," I said, voice deadpan as I studied her, silently scouring her face for cues that I was wrong, that maybe she actuallywantedto move in with Penny.

The only thing worse than her moving out would be her staying with me for my sake.

"Don't worry, pookie," the corner of her lip curved into a hook, "you're the only one who doesn't send my avoidant attachment issues into a raging death spiral." She grabbed the other half of my sandwich, biting off more than she could close her lips around, as she added, "Besides, Penny eats chips in bed. Can you imagine? Permanently sharing a bed with someone and their crumbs like that? Disgusting. Whenever I stay over, I end up spending half the night debating the pros and cons of dipping out while she’s asleep and coming home. Trust me. That relationship's been on its way to the grave for weeks now, I justhaven't gotten around to putting the final nail in the coffin yet." She drummed her pointer finger against the flier again. "This'll do it."

"You're sure?" I asked, keeping my face measured, blank.

"Abso-fucking-lutely I am. Ran into Becca after class." Sora was six months older than me, which meant she’d already reclaimed her identity, got her G.E.D. and enrolled in some cosmetology classes—a maelstrom of paperwork and appointments I’d been working on since my birthday. "She's not terrible. Quiet, works first shift, and spends every weekend in Portland visiting her boyfriend. The common areas are partially furnished. It's literally the perfect setup." She finished off the sandwich half, leaving the crust and a few pieces of wilted lettuce. "We stay there for a few months—a year tops—save up, and then we can get our own place for real—just us. This is like the perfect little lily pad to help get us across the pond, you know? Next lily pad will be even bigger and better. Just you wait—it’s a bright future, kid. No more hiding, the world is our oyster."

I snorted. "Are we frogs or pearls in this scenario?"

Sora had a way with mixing metaphors and turns of phrase. Usually, I just sort of had to close my eyes and go with it, gauge the general vibes.

“Exactly.” She waved a cold fry in the air, pointing it at me with emphasis. "You’re getting there, Kermit."

The man sitting at the counter chuckled, the sound barely a sound, more the suggestion of one.

Sora turned, studying him with interest. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at his back.

It was a damn good back, but she didn’t seem quite as taken with it as I’d been.

She shifted her attention back to me, her smile bright.

I glanced down at my phone and swore. “I’m late.”

I was covering part of a shift at the pub down the street, and I was technically supposed to start in five minutes. Tonight, the manager’s son, Chase, was working—and he hated me with a fiery passion.

I shoved the rest of my fries at Sora, told her to call Becca and tell her I was in, before collecting my shit and shoving the laptop across the counter towards Frank.

“Thanks—you’re a lifesaver, old man.”

He grunted, then grabbed the computer without lifting his head up from where I knew he kept his phone perched, watching whatever local game was playing on the cracked screen.

When I turned to leave, I noticed the amber liquid in the mystery man’s glass—and the half-consumed bottle of Bulleit sitting next to it.

I froze.

“Frank, since when did you get your liquor license?” I turned to him, tapping the counter when he didn’t answer.

Frank’s head shot up, brows pinching as his gaze dipped from me to the bottle. “I, uh—” he pursed his lips, “I didn’t.”

The man next to me went still as ice, his moody eyes shifting to mine as he held the glass—the nice stuff that Frank kept in his apartment, not here in the diner—to his lips.

His upper lip was full, slightly bigger than the bottom, and my mouth went dry when his tongue peeked out against the rim as he took a sip.

I blinked, swiped the bottle, and handed it to Frank.

Frank grabbed it, his face bent in confusion as he held it, like he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there in the first place.

“That’s your good stuff,” I said, more to the man than to Frank. The diner didn’t serve alcohol, and Frank rarely drank, save for holidays and after a particularly bad shift. He went through maybe one bottle of Bulleit a year. I knew, because Sora and I saved up each year and bribed someone to buy one for usso that we had something to wrap up and give him on Christmas that he wouldn’t hate. And this kid looked like he’d already thrown back a few glasses in the few minutes he’d been here.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with just a bit of bite—not unlike the bourbon he’d been drinking. He turned to Frank, eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it?”

Frank blinked a few times, then nodded. He set the bottle back on the counter, sliding it towards the man.

“No,” I stopped him, shoving it back, “it’s not.”

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