18. Reva
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
REVA
Every muscle I own has filed a complaint.
My shoulders ache from working the heavy bag.
My wrists feel tender from my terrible attempt at taping them.
There’s rug burn forming on one knee from the mats, and several other parts of me are making it clear that sex on a gym floor should probably come with a waiver.
I stand under the hot water of the shower, letting it beat against the back of my neck while I try to convince my brain to reboot.
It’s committed to chaos, though.
Ever’s hands. Deacon’s mouth. Cal’s lies. Delia’s face. Nash’s voice. Shiloh in the carriage house doorway, looking at me like I had become a very interesting problem he intended to solve with his whole body.
I press my forehead against the tile and breathe through my nose.
My life used to be shift work, Starbucks coffee, bad takeout, and Chicago traffic. Now it’s assassins, syndicates, inherited trauma, group scheduling negotiations, and whatever the hell just happened in that carriage house.
The shower curtain twitches, and I lift my head. A tiny orange paw appears around the side of the plastic liner and bats at my ankle.
“Homer. No.”
The paw disappears. A second later, the curtain moves again, more aggressively this time.
“Homer, I swear to God, if you climb in here—”
He climbs in. Or tries to.
The kitten launches himself halfway up the inside of the curtain, loses traction immediately, and drops straight into the tub with a wet, offended plop.
For one stunned second, he sits in the spray, all fur flattened to his skull, blue eyes enormous, whiskers dripping. He looks like someone has betrayed him on the basest of levels.
Then he opens his tiny mouth and screams.
I start laughing. “You did it.”
I cannot help it. The sound breaks out of me and bounces off the tile, rusty from disuse and ugly at first, then real.
Homer looks even more insulted, which makes it worse.
I scoop him up before he can drown himself out of spite, holding his soggy body against my chest while he complains directly into my collarbone.
“You did this all by yourself,” I tell him.
He yells again.
“I know. The stupidity is devastating.”
He does not try to escape. That is the part that gets me. He doesn’t scratch or claw…he just settles into the crook of my arm like a damp orange washcloth and lets the water hit both of us, trembling with outrage but apparently committed to the experience.
I rinse shampoo out of my hair one-handed while he glares at the wall and wails.
By the time I shut off the water, he has stopped screaming. He blinks up at me, soaking wet and furious, and I laugh again.
It feels dangerous. Good things usually do now.
I wrap him in one towel and myself in another, then carry him into the bedroom, where I spend five minutes rubbing him dry while he pretends he hates every second of it. He purrs the whole time, loudly, with a liar’s conviction.
When he finally escapes, he bolts across the room, leaps onto the bed, and begins murdering the corner of my pillow.
“That tracks,” I tell him.
Getting dressed is less funny.
My clothing situation has become humiliating.
I have one pair of clean jeans, several T-shirts I’m sick of looking at, a few pairs of leggings with suspicious holes in them, and a few borrowed items that make me look like I’ve stolen the men’s laundry basket.
I pick the jeans and a snug black T-shirt because the alternative is wearing Shiloh’s hoodie for a third day in a row and giving him the satisfaction.
The jeans are tight over sore thighs, and I curse quietly while tugging them up.
Homer watches from the bed with judgment.
“You’re the one who fell in a shower.”
He licks his paw.
“Exactly.”
Downstairs, the house is already moving. Voices drift from the direction of the front hall. Low, male, controlled. None of them sound relaxed, which means either something is wrong or they are all awake.
With this group, those are usually the same thing.
Ever waits near the back door with two travel coffees and sunglasses hooked into the collar of his black shirt.
His eyes drop to my damp hair, then to the jeans, then to my face.
He does not smirk. Ever is too disciplined for smirking, but I can tell he remembers the gym floor because I remember the gym floor, and the memory is currently standing between us waving a red flag.
He hands me a coffee.
“You look better,” he says.
“I showered with a cat.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Against my will,” I add.
“I can’t imagine you wanting to shower with the cat...”
Shiloh appears behind him wearing dark slacks, a pale shirt open at the throat, and a crease between his eyebrows. He looks me over with sharper focus than usual. His attention catches on my shirt, my jeans, the wet ends of my hair, the old sneakers I have worn too many days in a row.
Then he smiles. That makes me frown.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing, my ever suspicious Yank.”
“Never start a sentence with nothing. That’s just like fine. It always means ‘something.’”
Ever takes my elbow and guides me toward the side door. “We need to get to Noir.”
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
“Are we working today?”
“For a few hours.”
Shiloh steps closer, still smiling too easily. “A little routine will do you good.”
“I hate when people say things will do me good.”
“Most people hate things that are good for them.”
“Most people also hate being manhandled.” I look down at Ever’s hand on my elbow.
Ever grunts. “Then don’t make it so tempting.”
Ever opens the door before I can answer that, and we head into the damp Louisiana morning.
Noir is quiet when we arrive. Too quiet for a bar, though I suppose bars are allowed to have mornings. Sonny is already there, perched on a stool with her hair piled on top of her head and a stack of invoices in front of her like she is pretending she knows what to do with them.
She looks up when I walk in. Her face brightens. “She’s alive.”
“Barely.”
“Sex alive or trauma alive?”
Ever stops behind me. “Do y’all tell each other everything?”
Shiloh coughs.
I give Sonny an innocent smile. “Sure we do.”
She grins into her cup.
For the next few hours, I do what passes for work while everyone around me is distracted and no one has the decency to admit it.
I wipe down tables that are already clean.
I restock napkins. I count limes. I make a list of bottles for Ever and then recopy it because my handwriting looks like I wrote it during an earthquake.
Ever checks his phone too often.
Shiloh disappears into the office twice and comes out both times with his jaw tighter.
Nash never comes in from wherever he has stationed himself.
By lunchtime, I am done pretending not to notice. I set a basket of clean bar towels on the counter. “What the hell is going on?”
Ever looks up from his phone. “Nothing.”
Sonny swivels slowly on her stool. “Oh, that was so bad.”
I point at her. “Thank you.”
Ever slides his phone into his pocket. “You and Sonny should get out for a while.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“Go walk. Eat. Do…tourist nonsense. Come back in two hours.”
Sonny’s face lights up. “Okay…weird, but fun.”
“No,” I say.
Ever’s expression does not change. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Oh be so for real right now.”
Sonny snorts. “Maybe I should leave you two alone…”
Shiloh comes through the back hallway fast enough to make me turn. He stops behind me, places both hands on my shoulders, and starts steering me toward the door.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Encouraging enrichment.”
“I am not a kindergartner—”
“No, kindergartners are easier to manage. They have schedules.”
Sonny hops off the stool and grabs her purse. “I’m taking her before someone gets hurt.”
I plant my feet. Shiloh keeps pushing.
“Shiloh.”
He leans close to my ear. “I have shit to do. Ever is closing the bar for a few hours while Nash handles meetings, and he’ll keep an eye from a distance. You and Sonny are going to go have fun like normal girls who aren’t actively trying to give me gray hair.”
I twist enough to look at him. “That was a lot of words for nothing’s going on.”
“Everything is fine.”
I groan. “That’s even worse.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Promise?”
Something flickers across his face and disappears before I can catch it. Then he lifts his pinky.
I stare at it. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“You are one of the weirdest men I have ever met.”
“High praise, considering your recent social circle.”
I hook my pinky through his.
His smile comes back, softer this time. “Pinky swear.”
I want to believe him. That bothers me more than the lie I’m pretty sure he’s telling.
Sonny grabs my wrist and drags me out before I can interrogate him further.
The sun hits hard the second we step onto the sidewalk, bright off the old buildings and damp pavement.
The Quarter is already awake around us. Delivery trucks, tourists in day-drinking clothes, music leaking from somewhere, a man in a linen suit arguing with a parking meter.
Ever follows half a block behind us. He is not subtle.
Sonny glances over her shoulder. “Does he always do that?”
“Lurk?”
“Protectively stalk.”
“Yes, him or Shiloh.”
“Hot.”
“It’s annoying as fuck.”
“It can be both.”
I look back. Ever’s eyebrows lift, and I turn back around.
“Men are exhausting,” I mutter.
Sonny hooks her arm through mine. “That is why God made cocktails, carbs, and besties who know where to find both.”
We walk deeper into the Quarter. Sonny gives me a tour that consists mostly of gossip, crime statistics, and which restaurants have bathrooms they will let you use without buying anything.
She points out balconies, courtyards, shuttered windows, the places where musicians like to set up after dark.
I try to listen. I even enjoy parts of it.
I’m distracted, though, half my brain wondering what the hell is going on with the guys. I know it’s something. Maybe something with Deacon, or Delia.
My stomach lurches. Maybe he’s bringing her to me later.
Or maybe—