Page 31 of Night Shift

“All right, all right,” Jabari concedes. “I’ll tell Griffin to turn down the music, and I’ll personally keep an eye on the freshmen and make sure none of ’em end up with alcohol poisoning. But before I go do that—”

“I told you, I’m not doing body shots.”

“—I got you a birthday present.”

Vincent winces like he’s expecting the worst, but then Jabari steps aside, presenting me with a sweep of his arm like he’s one of the showgirls on The Price Is Right and I’m a brand-new Jet Ski that some poor bastard is going to have to pay exorbitant taxes on.

Vincent, the poor bastard in question, goes slack-jawed.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Kendall.”

Jabari throws back his head and hollers, “Suh-prise, shawty!”

It’s not exactly how I pictured our reunion (it definitely doesn’t have the sublime romantic impact of Mr. Darcy marching across the misty moors to tell Elizabeth he loves her), but I try to push through the disappointment. It’s fine that it’s almost too loud to hear each other and too dark to see each other. It’s fine that there are sweaty drunk people on all sides of us. It’s fine that Jabari, Nina, and Harper are watching Vincent and me stare at each other like we’re exams that the other hasn’t studied for.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of the fact that my shoulders are hunched and I’ve got my arms wrapped around myself. I let them drop to my sides and try to hold my chin high. Vincent’s eyes immediately dip to my collarbone, and then down—all the way to the base of my bare sternum. I feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch. He tugs his eyes back up to mine and swallows hard.

“You came,” he rasps.

It’s too easy of a double entendre. A cheap shot, really.

“I was promised a poetry reading.”

“Right.” The corner of Vincent’s mouth twitches. “Prepare to be blown away, Holiday. I memorized some Shel Silverstein just for you.”

I laugh, too relieved to do much else. Because this? The bantering thing? This is comfortable and familiar and so fun it makes me dizzy.

I could do this shit all night.

“Is this really how y’all flirt?” Jabari asks.

The question is delivered with a surprising amount of fondness, but Vincent still startles like he’s only just remembered that his friend is standing next to us. His expression smooths over into a hard mask. I’m reminded of the boy who came in during my shift three weeks ago: cold, confident, stuck somewhere halfway between aloof and asshole. He was embarrassed that night. Out of his element, out of sorts, and frustrated that he needed my help.

This brooding thing he does is his defense mechanism.

“Hey, Henderson,” Vincent says, “can you fuck off?”

Jabari doesn’t seem the least bit offended. He salutes his teammate, turns to Harper, and says something to her that I can’t catch over the music. She nods and gestures to Nina, then grabs me by my sleeve and hauls me close so she can shout into my ear.

“I’m gonna go upstairs and meet some of Jabari’s teammates. I’m leaving Nina to wing-woman for you, because you’re hopeless and I don’t trust you, so do what she says, okay?”

“But—”

“Nope. The boy wants you, Kenny. Don’t fuck it up for yourself.”

Harper gives me a soft—yet slightly condescending—pinch on my cheek, and then she and Jabari are lost to the crush of the crowd. I look to Nina, who folds her arms over her chest and widens her stance, like a bouncer outside a bar, before nodding at me.

“He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” Vincent asks like it’s supposed to be a joke, but there’s a worried edge to his voice, and his eyebrows are pinched.

“Is he always like that? So . . .” I search for the right word. “. . . forward?”

“He’s a shooting guard, actually.”

I blink.

“It’s a basketball joke.”

“Oh. See, I don’t know all of the positions.”

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