19. Henry
19
HENRY
Amelie looks like a distraction tonight.
She pries my hand off her back once we get outside, then starts shivering moments later. The term spitting snow is too light for what’s actually going on out here. There’s a heavy dusting on the sidewalk, the roads, and the trees. In half an hour, I reckon it’ll be covered. More reason for us to get this over with.
“Put on your jacket,” I tell her.
She scoffs. “Thank you, Mom .”
“You’re obviously freezing.”
“How would you know?” She asks, though she’s rubbing the backs of her arms with embarrassing vigor. “Maybe I’m toasty. Maybe I’m sweating real bad.”
“Your nose is red, your teeth are chattering, and it looks like you’re trying to start a fire. Put it on.”
With a glare she relents, slipping her arms through the sleeves. The leather is wet from the snow that’s fallen on it, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I put my jacket on as we continue down the sidewalk, then shake the snow from my hair. I was hoping it would lighten up, not fall harder, though clearly, it was wishful thinking.
I’m really hoping that Bondi’s will be empty, but the chances of that are low. Despite the weather, that place has never had an off day.
Neither of us speak as we walk. Amelie’s focus seems to lie on not slipping, given that the ice is nearly forming under our feet, but I’m fixated on making sure tonight goes smoothly. It may be our only chance to find my Ophelia before Amelie leaves, and if this doesn’t work, my dad will take things into his own hands.
And his solutions have always been a little rocky, to say the least.
We reach Bondi’s and get in line. It’s not a slow night—not one at all. We’re wrapped around the corner, about twenty places from the front. This many people cannot be good for whatever Amelie has planned, but perhaps someone will be more suspicious than us.
“So,” Amelie says, clearly sick of the silence. “Liz is a fashion writer?”
I raise my brows, shocked that she even remembered that detail. The conversation was minimal to me, so I figured it was to her, too. Though I know she’s the type of person to remember everything that happens in a room.
“Random, but yes,” I say. “She writes for High Fashion. Personally, I believe she hates it, but it’s her choice.”
Amelie hums. Crosses her arms and burrows a little deeper into that oversized leather jacket. I think it’s her roommate’s, because I don’t see why she’d purchase it herself. It’s two sizes too big. “I wanted to be a fashion writer,” she says flippantly. “When the academy didn’t work out, I considered that.”
My mouth goes dry. The sole mention of the academy is breaching a dangerous topic, much more than anything we’ve discussed prior. But I can’t stop myself from questioning her further, because even though I shouldn’t, I crave more. More answers. Details. The sound of her voice.
More of her in general. Which is bad.
“Why’d you give up on that?” I ask, deciding to keep my curiosity at bay.
“Because I still can’t spell worth anything.”
I laugh, and she does the same. “Valid reason.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
“How did you go from wanting to do that, to doing what you do now?”
Amelie shakes her head, and I know I’ve crossed a line. “No. Off limits.”
“We have off-limit topics?”
“Ninety percent of what we’ve discussed is off limits,” she mumbles. “I just don’t find you to be any harm. Yet.”
Her emphasis on that word drags me back to my dad’s words. His request for me to gain Amelie’s trust, then inevitably lose that gift.
“I should take that as an honor,” I say, looking over my shoulder.
“You should,” she agrees. “Don’t you?”
I do, I think, but even that answer feels wrong. I’m too paranoid to think straight. For some reason, I’m almost convinced that my dad is somehow aware of this partnership. That he knows we’re here right now. But it’s ridiculous—it’s not like he’s omnipotent. He’s at home, probably in his office, sifting through bills and checks.
Yet even through that logic, I can’t shake the feeling that he knows.
“I do,” I say aloud, “but not without a dose of fear.”
Her face breaks into a smile. A genuine one that makes my stomach drop. “Good.”
When we finally reach the door, I step up first. The bouncer nods when I flash him my ID. I start to walk inside, expecting Amelie to follow, but when I check over my shoulder, she’s frozen.
And then I realize that she probably doesn’t carry her ID. Because why would she? She’s a thief. That cannot be a good idea.
She pokes me in the side, looking up at me with wide eyes, and I know she’s waiting for me to vouch for her.
“I’ll need your ID,” the bouncer says.
Amelie’s expression changes in a second. She puts on a sweet, innocent smile and takes hold of my arm. “I left my purse at your place, Hen.”
I hold my breath and pray she can’t tell how distracted I am by her touching me. At the way she’s looking up at me through her lashes. “You did?”
“I did.” She turns toward the bouncer. “Can we just call it even for the night? His apartment is far, and I don’t enjoy walking in these shoes.”
The bouncer looks unimpressed. “I can’t let you in without an ID.”
“She’s fine,” I say coolly. “She’s older than me, actually.”
“I’m fine,” Amelie repeats. “Really. Do I look like someone who would lie?”
The man’s face implies that, yes, she looks like someone who would lie.
I take a step closer, hoping the man can hear me over the horrendous noise coming from inside. Some techno-pop song is blaring, and it’s nearly deafening. “Look. We’re here on business for Roman Arlington. Just let us inside. We won’t drink, won’t cause any trouble. And we are both legal.”
“I can’t let her in without an ID,” he says flatly, voice louder than mine.
I look over at Amelie and find her staring at me intensely. She’s counting on me to get us in here, but I’m not sure it’s going to work. I have to try, though. Leaving without an attempt isn’t an option.
Sighing, I grab my wallet from my pocket and fish out a one-hundred dollar bill. The bouncer is watching, eyes squinted as I unfold it. I doubt he gets bribed that often, and when he does, it probably isn’t with any more than twenty dollars. Nobody is that desperate to get into a nightclub.
“From Roman,” I say, handing him the bill. “Don’t let it get back to him.”
The man has zero qualms about being bribed. He pockets the bill and waves us through, bidding us a goodnight as he does so. I thank him and put my hand on Amelie’s back as we walk inside, hoping that we won’t get separated by the horde of people.
And when I say horde, I do mean horde.
It’s atrocious. So bad that I’m wondering why I let Amelie talk me into this. We should’ve waited until tomorrow. I could’ve talked our way in here much easier during the day. So why didn’t I suggest that?
Why am I blindly going along with everything Amelie says?
“This is bad,” she says simply, looking up at me.
“I think we’ll be fine.” I do not, in any way, shape, or form, think that. “Do you want to sneak into the back now, or…?”
Amelie checks the time on her phone. “No,” she yells over the noise. “Let’s give it a sec. Get drinks or something.”
I really don’t want to give it a sec, but fine.
Without thinking, I tug Amelie’s jacket off her shoulders, tossing it over my arm with my own. “You think we need drinks?”
She huffs and pats a ten-dollar bill into my palm. “Shut your mouth and get me a cola.”
I do, unsurprisingly. I walk to the counter, nervously popping the bill between my hands. When I get to the bar, every seat is taken. I squeeze between two sweaty men screaming at a game on TV and order our drinks, settling on water for myself. I look over my shoulder and attempt to locate Amelie, if only to make sure she hasn’t run off to handle things on her own, but I find her laughing with some guy in a green polo shirt.
Something tugs low in my stomach at the sight, and it aggravates me. What right do I have to feel jealous at Amelie laughing with someone? None. I have no right. I’m annoyed at myself for even giving them a second glance, though it’s not as though I can help it. Nothing I’ve felt lately is in my control.
The bartender gets my attention and hands me two glasses. I thank him and slide over the money, then find my way back to Amelie. She’s standing in the center of the floor, alone once again, her face still bright with laughter. For a moment, I let myself imagine that I was the one who made her laugh. That I caused that smile on her face.
And then her eyes land on me, and the glow in them dulls.
“I hate this song,” she says loudly. I hand her the glass of cola, but she stares at my water like it’s poison. “You went for straight vodka?”
I rattle the glass. “Water. I’m not going to be tipsy on one of your ‘thought-out’ operations.”
She hums. “ Thought-out is an extremely relative term. In the grand scheme of things, what is thought out? How long does one have to think?—”
“We don’t need to do this right now.”
Amelie grins and lifts her drink to her mouth. I take a step forward, trying to make space for a server behind me, but the gesture fails miserably as someone slams into my shoulder. It’s enough of an impact that I spill my drink right down the front of my shirt. I close my eyes and exhale, setting the glass on a tray to my right. Amelie is trying to hold in a laugh, but I can hear her giggling against her palm, failing to stifle the sound.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m not.”
I grab a napkin to dry myself off, but it’s useless. The papery fabric pills against my shirt, leaving tiny white specks in its wake. I give up wholly when Amelie turns on her phone and stares at the screen with a furrowed brow.
“What?” I ask.
“They’re here. Meg and Jensen.”
My heart speeds. “Okay. What do we do?”
“I’ll be in the back.” She starts walking away. “Meet you outside in fifteen.”
“Be careful, Ames,” I call over the music. “Please.”
She gives me a wave over her shoulder.
I have a sneaking suspicion that careful is the last thing she’s going to be.