Chapter 3 Rory
Rory
The pile of discarded clothes around my feet grew higher as I dug through my wardrobe. A sequined crop top sailed across the room, followed by three pairs of ripped jeans and my favourite mesh shirt.
I’d started this process forty-five minutes ago with a simple goal: find something professional.
Now I had three distinct piles: the “definitely not” mountain by the window that included the glittery monstrosity I’d worn to Pride, the “maybe if I was desperate” heap by my dresser, and the “actually quite promising but missing something crucial” collection on my bed.
The black shirts had been circling between piles two and three for the last twenty minutes while I spiralled about whether “professional investigator” meant “boring” or “competent but approachable.”
A soft knock preceded Kit’s massive frame filling my doorway. “What died in here?”
“My fashion sense, apparently.” I held up two nearly identical black T-shirts. The left one was cotton—safe, boring. The right one had just enough texture to suggest I actually gave a shit about how I looked. “Which one says ‘I’m a professional investigator who definitely knows what he’s doing?’”
“Neither.” Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to go to Undertone with Maxwell?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I shot daggers at him whilst internally cataloguing whether I could get away with the burgundy shirt if I found my black blazer, except the blazer was somewhere in the laundry pile downstairs and I’d definitely need the specific silver chain that would balance the whole look, but that chain was tangled with three others and— “We’re interviewing potential witnesses slash leads.
Being professional. Following proper procedure.
All that boring stuff he loves so much.”
“Uh-huh.” Kit leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His cardigan stretched tight across his shoulders—the soft grey one he pretended wasn’t his favourite. “And the outfit crisis is because…?”
“Because I want to look competent, okay?” I threw both shirts onto the reject pile, immediately regretting it because now I’d have to start over completely and maybe the left one wasn’t that boring after all. “And also hot. Because it’s a nightclub.”
My phone screen caught my eye: 7:15.
Fuck. When had that happened? I’d been debating those two black shirts since quarter to seven, which meant I’d lost thirty minutes to a clothing paralysis spiral while Maxwell was probably already checking his watch and composing mental lectures about punctuality.
“Rory—”
“I know, I know. And I’d feel better if you came with us.” I yanked the burgundy button-down from its hanger—sod the blazer, sod the chain, this would have to work. “But Seb’s got you in Brixton tonight, right?”
“Yeah. Watching Marcus Vale’s clan.” Kit’s expression softened. “I’d come if I could.”
“I’ll be fine.” I shrugged into the shirt, checking my reflection. Actually, the burgundy worked—made my eyes pop, suggested confidence without trying too hard. “Maxwell might be a dick, but he’s a sensible, reliable dick. And I can handle myself.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Oh, shut up. I promise not to start any bar fights or accidentally set anything on fire.”
Kit’s deep chuckle echoed down the hallway as his heavy footsteps faded away.
Wait. The burgundy was too formal, wasn’t it? Made me look like I was trying to impress him, which I absolutely wasn’t, except maybe I was a little bit, but not in that way, just professionally, but—
“Fuck it.” I yanked the mesh shirt back off the floor, paired it with my tightest black jeans and threw the burgundy over it as an overshirt. Layers. Versatile. I could ditch the overshirt if the club was too warm, keep it if Maxwell’s disapproving stare got too frosty.
My phone blazed again: 7:18. Shit. Maxwell lived thirty minutes away, and I refused to give him another excuse to be a condescending prick about my timekeeping.
I hastily swiped eyeliner across my lids before bolting for the door. My fingers flew across the phone screen as I half jogged to my car.
Are you sure you and Emma don’t want to come to Undertone for your date night tonight?
Priya’s response pinged back instantly.
Priya
No, because I don’t want Emma to become vampire food
A laugh burst from my chest as I slid behind the wheel of my not-so-trusty Ford Cortina.
Those two had finally got their act together after four months of Priya’s not-so-subtle flirting.
Flynn had persuaded Emma to get a job at Fat Cat’s, and then Priya had repeatedly dropped in, attempting to buy Emma cups of tea so she could read her leaves.
God, it had been painful to watch.
Nowadays, I couldn’t help but miss having Priya as my designated single friend.
We’d been close since the day we met. She’d made an effort to make me feel welcome at Killigrew Street because Kit had been too on edge about my arrival to do that himself.
Priya may not have been all that powerful for a “Gifted practitioner”—her skills basically amounted to teaspoon telekinesis—but she had a heart of gold. For the people she liked, at least.
After Issac died, she’d tried her best to fill the hole the absence of my best friend left in my life.
For ages, she’d shown up at my door almost every other evening with food and terrible movies.
But post-Emma, I was now often stuck with Kit when I needed company.
I loved my brother, but he annoyed the hell out of me.
Though being alone was worse. The silence got too loud, thoughts spiralling into dark places.
I arrived two minutes late, thanks to having to slow down for the three speed cameras en route.
Maxwell emerged from his building, and my brain short-circuited.
Holy shit.
Detective Dickface was wearing jeans. Not just any jeans—dark, well-fitted ones that hugged his thighs in ways his usual suit trousers never did.
He’d paired them with a simple black T-shirt under a navy button-up left casually open, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing forearms I’d never seen before.
His usual glasses were absent, and oddly, I missed them. They suited his Mr. Serious Detective act.
I clutched the steering wheel, shocked by my own thoughts.
What was going on? My earlier interactions with Maxwell had clearly muddled my brain.
The way he’d brought me coffee—Fat Cat’s coffee, of all things—and the compliment about being hotter than Ezra, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty it had knocked me sideways.
For about ten blissful minutes, I’d almost forgotten I was supposed to hate him.
I’d caught myself actually enjoying his company, teasing him about his underwear choices, like that was an appropriate thing to do.
Get it together, Rory. You can’t trust him. Not even a little bit.
Maxwell yanked the passenger door open, wincing at the ear-splitting creak of rusty hinges. He slid in cautiously, as if the seat might collapse beneath him.
“When was this thing manufactured? The Dark Ages?”
“She’s a classic.” I turned the key, and the engine coughed to life after three attempts.
Maxwell pulled the door shut, only to meet resistance. He tried again, more forcefully, then stared at me, eyebrows raised. Without his glasses, his super thick, long dark lashes were more apparent.
“It doesn’t quite shut properly, but it’s fine. Honest.”
“This thing needs to go to the scrapyard,” he muttered, gripping the door handle as I pulled away.
I glanced over, noticing his freshly shaved jaw and catching a whiff of a different cologne than he usually wore. Something woody and spiced that my brain couldn’t help but take note of. The scent clung to the collar of his shirt, crisply ironed. Bloody hell, he smelled good.
Not that he didn’t usually smell good, to be fair to him. Underneath the lemongrass he usually wore, he had this distinctive smell that somehow reminded me of raindrops—the earthy, fresh scent that lingers after a storm breaks the heat. It was… annoyingly nice.
Oops. I’d been silent for too long. Was he reading my thoughts right now, listening to me obsess over how he smelled like a bloody summer rainstorm? God, how embarrassing. My cheeks burned at the thought.
I cleared my throat. “Well, Seb’s promised me a new car as soon as I can go a full month without a single parking or speeding fine.”
“So… never, then?”
“Fuck off.”
My skin prickled as Maxwell’s eyes lingered on me, taking in my mesh shirt visible beneath the oversized burgundy overshirt, the eyeliner, my attempt at styled hair.
“What?” I challenged, oddly self-conscious under his scrutiny. “I figured if Undertone is a bust, I’ll go out to meet some mates after. You said you had to be home by eleven anyway.”
Maxwell grunted in reply.
I pressed on the accelerator, weaving through traffic while my brain ping-ponged between a dozen different thoughts.
The case… What if we found nothing? Dev…
was he still alive? What would it be like if we found him dead?
The missing wolves… were they really connected to this?
How Maxwell was going to act at Undertone…
would he be his usual grumpy self or actually try to blend in?
Should I have worn the other shirt after all?
Did he think I looked ridiculous? Why did I even care what he thought?
“Can you stop that?” Maxwell snapped suddenly.
“Stop what?”
He pointed at my hands against the wheel. “That. The tapping.”
I hadn’t even realised I was doing it. My fingers froze mid-beat, and I scowled at him. “I’m sorry my existence is so fucking annoying to you.”
“Do you ever keep still?”
An icy grip seized my heart as every muscle in my body tensed, the words cutting deeper than he could have guessed.
“Sit still, Rory! For god’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” My mother’s voice echoed from the past, sharp with frustration as I fidgeted through another endless Sunday dinner.