Page 93 of Hide From Me

The conversation starts to loosen as the drinks settle in. King tells some story about Jon getting kicked out of a wedding for trying to bet on if the bride would run. Moe’s head drops into his hands halfway through, groaning through a laugh like he’s already regretting this entire night as Jon rambles about all the best things to use as make-shift weapons around us.

Turns out even a fucking napkin can be fatal.

I’m tipsy by the second round. Not drunk—just warm. My cheeks ache from smiling, and my body finally relaxes against Moe’s side as his fingers tap along my thigh under the table. Every so often, his grip shifts, anchoring me when King’s stories veer too wild or the crowd gets too loud.

Then the music changes.

Something with a slower beat—still rock, but smoother, the kind of song that makes even the drunkest asshole pause before heading for the dance floor.

King sets his glass down, eyes already on me. “Dance with me, Schatz?”

I blink. “What?”

“C’mon.” He gestures toward the open floor. “You look like the type who knows how.”

“She is,” Moe says before I can answer, voice tight but polite.

“You should see her on a bar, but I guess Delilah has her territory marked here.” His smile is plastered on, not reaching his eyes.

“Just one,” King says, rising to his full, towering height. “I promise not to step on your feet. Much.”

I glance at Moe. His hand stills on my thigh. No protest, just a shrug that somehow feels more like a challenge than permission.

I sigh and slide out of the booth. “Fine. But if I end up concussed, I’m blaming you.”

King grins like I just made his night.

He leads me to the center of the floor, one hand hovering at my waist, the other loosely catching mine. We move easily, surprisingly in sync despite his size. His hand is steady but never forceful. The rhythm is slow enough that I don’t have to think.

Yet, I do.

Because something about King feels familiar. Not just his eyes, or broad shoulders, or self-assured way he carries himself. It’s the way his tone softens just for me. The way he watches everyone else while pretending not to. The tensionunder the charm. It’s Moe—but older. Rougher. Like a future version molded by fire and a few too many scars.

“You’ve got sharp eyes,” he says as we turn. “For someone who pretends not to be watching everything.”

“So do you,” I reply before I can stop myself.

He smirks. “I like you.”

I roll my eyes. “You seem to like anything as long as it's female.”

“True. You don’t trust many people, do you?”

I tense slightly. “Don’t read too deep.”

“Too late.”

He winks. It should be ridiculous—the whole mask thing, the way he towers over everyone like a damn myth—but it isn’t. There’s something magnetic about him. Not like Moe, though. Moe feels like gravity. King feels like a dare.

“You sure you’re not flirting with me just to piss him off?” I ask.

“I can't help it. He seems fun to rile up, and I think it's working.”

I laugh, shaking my head—until I see Moe weaving through the crowd toward us, all easy swagger and pretend calm. His smile is deadly.

“Mind if I cut in?” Moe asks, already slipping a hand around my waist, pulling me back into his chest like we belong there.

King gives a lazy bow and backs off, hands raised. “Be my guest.”