Page 77 of Tide of Treason
A little breathless, I snapped, “It was cute of you to planthis, but I don’t need you scheduling my playdates. I can do it myself on Tinder if I get that desperate.”
His amusement died. “You will delete all dating apps from your phone and go to bed by nine every night.”
I scoffed. “Dream on.”
“If you don’t, I’ll kill every man on your phone, starting fucking tomorrow. And I’ll start with your best match.”
I knew, just knew, this man didn’t bluff. I could go on and on about the carnage Lucius Andrade was capable of, with or without his bipolar meds. Tapping a few icons was basically sending a carrier pigeon with ‘hit me’ printed on every feather. Not that it mattered. Dating apps were a joke, anyway. I didn’t need men when I had a perfectly functional vibrator at home. Although, swiping gave my anger somewhere to hibernate.
We stared at each other, something electric and volatile hanging between us, until the universe intervened with the deafening crash of a snare drum hitting the marble floor.
We both turned, united in exasperation.
One of Papà’s overpaid band monkeys had just yeeted his snare drum off the platform, and now it lay there, belly-up on the marble. The guy stumbled in after it, all lanky limbs and greasy hair.
“You’re in my house,” I informed him because he looked like he needed reminding.
“I—I know.” He nodded, knees bending to scoop up his fallen drum, but the moment he realised who he had to pass to get there, he hesitated.
Tragically, our drummer’s risk-management protocolswere nonexistent.
“Oh—uh, hey, man,” he ventured, toeing closer, eyes now glued to the neckline of my dress instead of the steps beneath his feet, and, in the grand tradition of every tragic male before him, he miscalculated. His boot clipped the already cracked ribs of the man slouched against the stairs, and for one perfect, glorious moment, the entire world held its breath.
“Uh—shit, man. My bad.”
Lucius exhaled a weary breath. It slid from his chest in a low, restrained groan that found a home deep in my stomach. And for a mortifying heartbeat, I wanted to feel that sound right against my throat. To refocus, I slipped the envelope into my purse and conveniently tucked it beneath a wad of rumpled bills and the switchblade I’d pilfered from Vito last week. Meanwhile, Lucius let his head fall, dragged the collar of his shirt over his forehead in a lazy, half-assed attempt to hide whatever reaction was tightening his jaw.
So much for indifference.
A thick, loaded silence stretched before he finally spoke.
“Is your leg broken, man?”
Drumstick hesitated. “Uh . . . what?”
“He’s wondering why you haven’t moved,” I translated smoothly. “Or, in other words, why you’re still standing around instead of, I don’t know, getting the hell out of here.”
Meek silence.
“Uh . . .”
A casual roll of his head had Lucius looking over the top of his raised collar, a cool blue eye glinting in the shadowedrecesses of his dress shirt.
“You’re still here.”
“I’ll just get my . . . drum . . . um, here.”
The word “here” was punctuated by a stooped dive for the drumstick lying on the ground, followed by a swift retreat.
With the intruder gone, silence stretched again. Lucius still hadn’t moved. If I squinted, I could almost convince myself it was because he enjoyed my company, rather than the more likely reason. That he was in too much pain to stand up.
We stared at each other.
He surrendered first. “Go back to your party, Kayla.”
I spun on my heel, though the only thing truly indifferent in this room was the shadow cast by the grand piano. I counted three clicks of my stilettos before the pull became unbearable, a magnetic drag beneath my ribs, the ache of wanting one more thing. The universe had been stingy tonight. Surely it could spare a single, meager scrap of joy.
Pausing, every cell in my body vibrated with indecision. All I wanted was to feel alive for five more seconds. To have proof that, once, I’d touched something real on the eve of turning thirty. My heart beat louder than the music.
