Page 131 of Scatter the Bones

We migrate toward the bar again. I never finished my drink earlier, and I doubt it’s still waiting for me—probably claimed or cleared.

“You need something to drink?” Jigsaw asks.

“Yes, but no more champagne.” My head’s still a little floaty from the first one. Now that we’re in the thick of the party again, I need to stay sharp, not start giggling like an idiot.

Our stools are now occupied, a pair of nearly naked women draped over them like blankets. Jigsaw steers me around to the other side, settling us near a pair of tall, silver swinging doors that catch the light every time they flap open.

“What’s in there?” I ask, nodding toward them.

“Kitchen. Big dining room off that,” Jigsaw answers. “We’ll all have breakfast in there tomorrow.”

Breakfast with the bikers. The last one at Upstate’s clubhouse had been fun. I’m looking forward to that more than what’s happening around me tonight.

I climb onto one of the bar stools. The man who came in with Stella earlier walks up and taps Jigsaw’s shoulder. Keeping one hand on my back, he turns to talk to the man. He doesn’t bother introducing me to the guy—who I assume is also a porn star—and given the way our conversation with Stella went, I’m fine with it.

The bar’s slammed and it takes a while for Lala to make her way over to me. “You want another Velvet Crown?” she asks, lifting an open bottle of champagne.

“No, maybe just sparkling water? With lime, if you’ve got it?”

She ducks behind the bar—then pops up like a waffle out of the toaster. “We’re out back here, but I know there’s a case of those little San Pellegrino bottles in the big fridge.” She jabs a finger toward the double doors. “Or I can grab you seltzer from the soda gun.”

She points to a battered black-and-silver machine. My nose wrinkles. Who knows the last time they pulled that thing apart and cleaned it?

“That’s okay. I’ll try the kitchen.”

“I’d do it, but—” She waves a hand toward the packed bar.

“No problem.” I offer her a warm smile. She shouldn’t have to worry so much about serving me. “I got it.”

I slide off the stool.

Still mid-conversation, Jigsaw whips around. His eyes lock on mine, awhere are you goingscowl on his face.

Charmed by his protectiveness, I point to the kitchen doors. “Grabbing a water. Want one?”

He frowns, eyes flicking from the door to me, then nods.

The second the door swings shut behind me, regret claws up my spine.

Five women. Early twenties, maybe younger. Heads cocked like rabbits trying to decide if I’m a threat or a snack. Three perched on the high stainless steel counters, whispering and laughing. One by the stove. One elbow-deep in an industrial dishwasher.

Their chatter stops.

They all have one thing in common—a whole lot of skin on display.

Too many clashing artificial scents—buttery vanilla, coconut lime, cheap musk—crash into me like a mall kiosk ambush.

The two women actually doing something go back to their tasks, ignoring me. The other three continue staring.

I paste on a polite smile like armor and head straight for the large, stainless steel refrigerator on the far wall.

I’m fine. I belong here. My boyfriend’s right outside those doors. He’s an officer of the club. I’ve got my trusty little knife.

I might not be wearing one of the property patches, but people have seen me with Jigsaw tonight, right?

The whispers start again. Softer. Meaner. Ignoring them, I yank open one of the heavy fridge doors.

The murmurs grow louder, conniving and smug.

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