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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PERRY

Lars, being the great guy that he is, heads down to the cafe to pick up my backpack. His plan is to tell whoever’s working that I’m sick and not to expect me for a few days, but I don’t see how we’re going to unravel a whole-ass wannabe murder plot in that time.

Which means there is a very high likelihood that I’m going to lose my favorite job ever.

Maybe this is the universe’s way of getting even with me.

I chew on the granola bar St. Clare pulled from his desk drawer and look out over the nightclub. It’s a great view. Still daytime, so the club isn’t exactly thriving. There are a few people at the bar, drinks in front of them, working their way through ribs or wings or whatever, but otherwise, it’s mostly staff going about their day and getting ready for tonight.

Maybe working in a bar could be fun? Less personal, probably, but more staff to shoot the shit with.

“What are you thinking about?”

I glance over at St. Clare’s voice. “What it would be like to work here.”

“You really think I’d hire you?”

“Why not?” It’s hard to keep the offense out of my voice. “I’m an excellent employee. ”

“You literally just told me you made me shitty coffee this morning. On purpose.”

There my mouth goes getting ahead of myself again. “Maybe this would be a good time to take a vow of silence.”

“Is that something you’re capable of?” St. Clare’s eyes twinkle when I catch them.

“Probably.”

That twinkle passes to his mouth as it curls into a grin. “You couldn’t last five minutes.”

“Not true. I’ve gone whole days without talking to anyone.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“ Days ?”

So maybe days is a stretch. Margot checks in with me too often for that.

“ Shit . Margy.”

St. Clare blinks at me. “What?”

“I’m supposed to be grabbing Margot and Elle dinner tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I finally have money, and so now I’m trying to make up for everything they’ve done for me.”

“And you really think you should be spending any of that money?”

He has a good point. Unfortunately, it’s way too late for that. I haven’t gone wild, but between rent, overdue bills, and paying Elle back for the laptop, I’ve spent a tidy chunk of it. If you ask me, I’m putting the money to better use than the original owner did anyway.

Why would you pay to have someone offed when there are plenty of people struggling who you can give the money to? Rich people make me sad. Sure, I’m looked down on for not having a whole hell of a lot, but I’m happy, so shouldn’t that be the most important thing? When did it become some huge competition over who can be the most miserable and earn the most money?

“Perry?” he prompts .

“Yeah, I’ve already spent a bunch, so I don’t think it makes a difference how much more I spend.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Most of it.” Which is better than none of it. “Maybe if I go to Luther, own up to what I did, and then pay the money back, it’ll all go away.”

“You said you didn’t have all the money to pay back.”

“Well, no, not right now. But I’m sure they could offer me a payment plan.”

St. Clare stares at me for a long time. “Who do you think we’re dealing with here? Dr. Evil?”

“Who?”

He ignores the question. “My point is that if these people are willing to kill you over money and me over a nightclub, you really think they’re going to forgive your lie and put you on a payment plan?”

“Worth a shot.”

“Sure. You let me know how that works out for you.”

“I do see an issue with that plan though.”

“Only one?”

“If I admit to not killing you, they’ll have it confirmed that someone else needs to kill you. So then we’re back to square one of you being hunted, and I’m starting to think I like you better alive than dead.”

“Oh yeah? Why?”

Why ? That’s a fair question, so it probably shouldn’t be this much of an issue to answer it. I think back on the little happy bubbles I’d get whenever he walked into the cafe and we started our back-and-forth. He’s a fun guy. Friendly. Very chatty. And let’s face it, lips that rare really shouldn’t be wasted and left to rot. “Well, you’re funny,” I tell him.

“You like me better alive because I’m funny?”

“It’s a good quality to have.”

St. Clare turns his back on the large window in front of us and tucks his hands into his pockets. “What else?”

“What are other good qualities? ”

“That I have, yes.”

I swallow, worried I’m going to say the wrong thing because everything sounds like the wrong thing. “You have a brother.”

“Not a quality. Try again.”

“Ah … and a Lars.”

His lips twitch and he shakes his head. “Qualities are like … the way you seem too big for a room. Your enthusiasm and broad shoulders and easy smile.”

The smile comes alive before I can stop it. “Your confidence,” I find myself saying.

“Confidence?” St. Clare sounds surprised. “My brother has always been the confident one. Nothing gets to him.”

“Shit. If that’s the case, I’m scared to meet him.”

Some of the light leaves his face. “ If you meet him.”

“Are you embarrassed by me?”

“No. I’m beginning to think he’s dead.”

My heart hurts at that. If there’s one way to kill a conversation—pun intended—that’s it. I have no idea how I’m supposed to reply to that, except it feels like he needs some comfort and hope, and those are two things I’m pretty fucking good at.

I reach over and give his shoulder a squeeze. It’s bigger than I expected, and it’s sort of weird to be touching him. Sure, I did that night I patched him up, but it wasn’t like this. There were too many competing emotions, and he was rudely bleeding everywhere to pay attention to anything else.

“We’ll find him,” I say, squeezing a bit tighter.

He snorts. “I thought you were going to work on a payment plan?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop helping you.” I’m struck with an idea. “Maybe Luther will give me a name.”

“A name?”

“Sure.” I’m already getting excited over the idea. “If he tells me who organized the job, we can go straight to the source and find out what’s up.”

“You really think this Luther guy is your friend? ”

“Oh yeah. I’ve known him for years. We have our own inside jokes and everything.”

“Right …”

It’s clear he doesn’t believe me, but that’s not the worst thing. It means he cares. Which is a bit cute of him, considering we’ve only just met. “I mean it. I’m going to help you find your brother, umm …”

“Colin.”

“Yes. Colin. Colin will be found.”

He watches me, studying my face for a moment. “Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because he’s not your brother.”

I finally pull my hand back. “Well, no, but I feel partially responsible for this mess.”

“Only partially.”

I crumple the granola bar wrapper in my fist and frown at him. “You’re never going to cut me a break, are you?”

“Sorry, it might take a little bit longer than my ear takes to heal.”

I eye the bandage on it, curious over how much damage I did to spurn a grudge so large. “Can I see it?”

“See … what, you want to admire your handiwork?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “I’m assuming it’s horrifically mangled, judging by the way you keep bringing it up.”

“Is there some kind of etiquette for getting over gunshot wounds I don’t know about?”

“I’d say a week tops for minor injuries.”

“Minor? You think this is minor?”

“Well, I don’t think much of anything because I haven’t seen it.”

St. Clare looks torn on whether he wants to play into this game or not, but now that I’ve asked, I do really want to see it. Like this itch of expectation and curiosity I’m not going to be rid of until I get a peek.

Finally, he makes up his mind and reaches for his ear. The dressing is taped down, and when St. Clare removes it, it takes all of my effort not to recoil.

Okay.

That looks nasty.

“What do you think?” He doesn’t even try to hold back the challenge in his voice.

“It’s … umm … cute.”

“Cute.”

“You look like an elf.”

He buries his face into his free hand. “It should be a whole lot harder not to like you than it is.”

“I can see that.”

“So why can’t I hate you and be done with it?”

It’s a good question. Realistically, it would make sense if he hated me. Would be totally justified too. As much as I’d like us all to move on from this moment, I can reluctantly agree that it’s a pretty big moment to move on from.

I eye the wound again. It’s been stitched up, the top outside section of his ear is missing, and what’s left is healing but still doesn’t look great. “Have you been disinfecting that?”

St. Clare’s hand drops. “Ah, mostly. Lars has been looking after it for me.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Doctor?” he asks in complete disbelief. “I haven’t seen one.”

“That doesn’t seem smart.”

“Yeah, well, someone told me to go into hiding, so my decision-making skills were questionable at best that night.”

I take St. Clare gently by the shoulders and steer him toward the sofa up against the wall. “Sit.”

“Why?”

It’s a struggle to keep my patience. “Just do it.”

His knees fold underneath him, and he lands on one side of the couch, still eyeing me curiously. “And?”

“Where are the supplies?”

He points toward the cabinet right next to the wet bar, and I open it to find a little of everything. If I had my phone, I could google this shit, but until Lars is back, I’m flying solo, and I really want to get St. Clare all bandaged up quickly. I get the feeling Lars won’t be impressed with me wanting a quick glimpse.

Gauze is a given. Antiseptic wipes. Then, a small bandage with one of those little butterfly clips to hold it closed.

I half juggle, half carry it all over to the couch, then climb onto the cushion next to him. “Hold still. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Comforting.”

“A plus for effort though, right?”

“I think a more likely outcome is that I’ll end up missing the other half of my ear.” Then, St. Clare gives me a soft, secret smile, and something goes off-kilter in my head. “Why don’t we wait until you’re done before we start giving out ratings?”

All I can do is nod and try not to swallow my tongue. These reactions to him somehow catch me by surprise every time, and it’s an effort to avoid the flustering my brain tries to make take over.

His ear.

I’m focused on his ear.

His gross, ruined ear.

With an exhale as loud as a dump truck, I get to work cleaning up the area. I’m slow and careful not to hurt him, picturing his ear as delicate as a butterfly wing. Or Judge Judy’s patience.

St. Clare releases a breathy laugh. “Your tongue is poking out.”

“Huh?”

“Do you always do that when you’re concentrating?”

His question throws me because I wasn’t even aware I was doing it this time, so how am I supposed to be aware of it any other time? “No clue.”

“It’s cute.”

There’re those squirmies in my gut again. I almost drop the wipe but catch myself just in time, refocusing on his ear and only his ear. Definitely not on him calling me cute.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“For what? ”

“If I … if I made you uncomfortable.”

Him apologizing to me is just about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. He makes me the complete opposite of uncomfortable, but I can’t explain that to him when I’m so fucking confused by it myself. “Why would you make me uncomfortable?”

“Most straight guys don’t appreciate being called cute.”

“But I am cute.”

He watches me from the corner of his eyes. “You are.”

“I am.”

“So we agree?”

“Guess so.”

He goes on watching.

I finish cleaning and move on to the bandage. This time, I notice when my tongue slips out, and I quickly tuck it back in again.

His amusement lights up his face, and when he speaks next, his voice has taken on a slight rasp. “And I’m cute too, right?”

The words slide through me like warm coffee on a cold morning. “Cute” isn’t the word I would have used. St. Clare is … intimidating. Interesting. Striking.

I’ve let go of his ear, and he turns his head slightly so that his eyes can snag mine. “Perry?”

“Yeah,” comes out before I can stop it. “Yeah, you are.”

“Am what?” He’s studying my face, the familiar taunting expression filling his. “Say it.”

My throat is hard to get words past. “You’re very cute.”

St. Clare tilts his head in interest. “I didn’t say very .”

“No.” Ignoring my nerves, I direct his head back around so I can keep working. “But I did.”