Page 107 of The Night Shift

“Or maybe it’ll help me tolerate your fuckass presence for the rest of the night.”

“At least I don’t look like Satan’s assistant.”

“And at leastIdon’t cry over children’smovies. Hm, maybe I should includethatin my wedding toast.”

He narrows his eyes. “It wasUp, you psychopath.”

“Say ‘psychopath’ again. I dare you.”

“What you gonna do? Throw another olive at me?”

I reach for a fork from a nearby caddy.

A server appears, her voice tight. “Excuse me, is everything okay here?”

Parker lifts both hands. “Everything’s totally fine. This weird woman is about to stab me with a fork, but we’re fine.”

I jab the air in his direction. “Hestarted it.”

The server hesitates. “Do you two know each other?”

“Not by choice,” he says.

“He’s her fiancé,” I snap, pointing at April.

April doesn’t even look up. “I’ve never met this woman in my life.”

My mouth drops open. “April.” I turn back to the pretty server. “She’s my sister,” I tell her, flatly.

April takes a casual sip of her cocktail. “Adopted.”

Parker starts coughing, trying not to laugh too hard. The server just stares at us for another beat before walking away slowly, probably deciding she doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this chaos.

April orders us a round of shots. The tequila burns my throat, but it feels nice. The happy couple makes their way to the dance floor, while I stay put to order myself another gin martini. Extra strong.

I steal a quick glance at my phone. Aside from an old text from Cami apologizing for not being able to make it to my place tonight due to a “work emergency,” my screen is empty. No new messages. Which should be a good thing. In theory, it is. But it doesn’tfeelgood.

A few minutes pass and the bartender returns with my drink. Eight olives this time. I spin around on my barstool and use the penis straw to take a big sip. The room hums with a low-frequency bassline, the vibrations coursing through my body like a gentle massage. I take another sip, the smooth, velvety texture warming my throat. Everything seems amplified somehow. The alcohol must be working its way through my bloodstream. The music seems louder, the lights brighter, the laughter around me more infectious. I close my eyes. The bassline pulses through my body, vibrating my bones and making my skin tingle —

“Nice tiara,” a voice interrupts.

My eyes snap open. I turn around and see a man leaning against the bar. Sandy beige skin, strong muscular build, darkhair. He’s wearing a deep red, open-necked suit, a cigarette smoldering between his lips.

“Are you talking to me?”

He stubs his cigarette in an ashtray and points to my headpiece. “That thing on your head. Is it broken?”

“It’s supposed to be that way.” The dim, neon lights cast dancing shadows on the walls and there's a subtle buzz in my body.

The man pauses for a moment, his brown-gray eyes scanning my face as if searching for something. My eyes glance down to his bare chest that’s adorned with a silver chain and an ax pendant. He steps closer and extends his hand. “I’m Finn, by the way. Finn Asher.”

I hesitate before deciding not to take his hand. “Ashley Miller,” I say. What? I don’t know this guy. What if he tries copping a feel? What if I trip and fall scalpel-first onto his neck? I don’t want him to know my real name.

Smiling slightly, he narrows his eyes. Almost as if he knows I’m lying. He takes his hand back. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Right now, I am.”

“Can I get you a drink?”