Chapter 19
Electra
Idrag a nearby stool to the cozy table Jeneva has selected for her date. “Sorry I’m late, boo. Terrible traffic.”
The glare Jeneva tosses me for crashing her date with my boyfriend—albeit, my fake one—is satisfying as hell.
“I’m still not sold on having a huge family,” I quip. “But I am coming around to having a dog. Or two.” Pets can’t lie or disappoint you.
Like a parched stalk finally given water, Cillian’s spine straightens, and the corners of his mouth lift.
Before heading their way, I’d haunted a shadowy alcove beside the multicolored tiled bar to observe them. I’d expected either boredom or intrigue on Cillian’s behalf. But those weren’t the vibes I got off him.
No, his expression was drawn, his shoulders hunched, and his mouth arced downward. Not to mention, the man who supposedly didn’t drink had ordered himself vodka neat. It didn’t take a behavioral analyst to tell he wasn’t having the time of his life.
“Where do you see yourself in five years, Jen?” I ask, crossing my legs. “Still chatting up other women’s boyfriends?”
A scowl crumples her very symmetrical face. If I had my phone, I would’ve recorded it to create a meme. Does that make me a bitch? Maybe… But at least I don’t prey on other people’s partners, which, on a scale of bitchiness, puts Jeneva way up there.
“If your boyfriend hadn’t wanted to come, he could’ve said no.” She swipes her phone off the table and dunks it into her shoulder bag. I hope this means she’s packing up.
“You’re right. He could’ve.” I glance at my “boyfriend,” who’s flipping his phone face down on the table. “But Cillian is a people-pleaser. Does Lisa know you rent out her kitchen for personal gain?”
Jeneva pales, but her loss of color lasts only for a second.
Then she flips her long brown hair over her shoulder and says, “I don’t, so whatever.
Also, she came by when he was baking and even sat with him to see how he was doing it, so she knows all about him using the store’s kitchen.
But seriously, whatever. Tell her.” Her repetitive use of the pronoun tells me she’s not nearly as unfazed by my threat as she pretends.
Cillian turns on his stool and leans against the shiny cobalt wall, knees spread wide as though to accommodate my body should I feel inclined to scootch farther toward him. Which I don’t. The long hours of the afternoon have done nothing to defuse my conflicted mood.
“So, what are we drinking?” I ask, since Jeneva has yet to get up.
“Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you?” She sounds genuinely puzzled and maybe a tad upset.
“I don’t particularly like you, but I don’t hate you. At least, not specifically. I’m just not a fan of people in general. Ask Cillian. He’ll tell you.”
He gives his head a small shake, his thumb moving from one corner of his smile to the other.
I nod to his glass. “How are the drinks?”
“Strong. Calming,” Cillian says, only reinforcing my suspicion that something is eating at him.
I grab the laminated cocktail menu wedged in between a plasticky succulent and an LED light shaped like a mushroom. The venue should have been called Kitsch instead of Cliché.
“They’re known for their spicy margaritas that range from mild Tajin to Carolina Reaper,” Jeneva says, still making no move to leave.
“That’s quite the range…” I muse.
“I think you’d like the Reaper.”
And I think she’d like to reap my soul.
I slot the menu card back between the table ornaments. “I do love living on the edge.”
When the waitress comes around, Jeneva orders me a Reaper, herself a Jalapeno—confirming she has no intention of leaving—and a double shot of vodka for Cillian.
“Nah. I’m good. But can we get another guac and chips, please?” he asks.
Once the waitress leaves, I chirp, “This is fun.”
“Isn’t it? You should see the toilets. The light switch activates an old jukebox. I don’t know who did the décor, but I think we should hire them to make Bloom’s Blooms hipper.”
“I don’t think hip is what Lisa is after. If Fiona were in charge, though, she’d be all over your idea.”
Jeneva suddenly smiles. “I’m so glad you’re on board!”
I cock an eyebrow while Cillian laughs quietly.
When she gets up and announces she’ll go take a video of the bathroom for Lisa, Cillian leans over, hooks the back of my stool, and drags me infinitesimally closer. “I missed you.”
“Did you really?”
“Yes, I really did.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and conclude, from your sentimentality, that you, Cillian Lowry, are drunk.”
“It takes way more to get me drunk.”
I tilt my head, the blunt ends of my hair whispering across my short-sleeved top. “Your eyes are as shiny as disco balls.”
“Just reflecting what they see. And all they see is you.”
I give him an eye-roll. How could I not, after a line like that? “How was your day?”
“Long.”
“What did you do after leaving my place?”
“I walked around for a bit, then taught two privates. How was your day?”
“Do you sleep with your clients?”
His head rears back.
If I’d asked the question without compulsion, I would’ve expected his shock, but since my eyes are glowing, his reaction gives me pause. Unless they aren’t glowing?
They must be, because he’s suddenly gaping at me wide-eyed, saying, “I would never cross that line. Do you want their phone numbers?”
“No.” I don’t release him from his compulsion. Not yet. Not until I ask one more question, “Who are Quinn and Reevey?”
His throat dips as though he were annoyed I’d rooted through his stuff. Except under the effect of compulsion, one can’t feel annoyed, so I fathom my conscience is making me misinterpret his physical reaction.
“Reevey is the owner of a cookbook I found in a little free library in Back Bay.” A shadow seems to fall into his eyes. “Quinn must’ve been his girlfriend or roommate since she gifted him the book and expected him to make her the recipes.”
“Why do you look upset? Because I went through your stuff?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I feel like a thief. I took a book without leaving one.”
I blink at him, releasing him from my magical interrogation.
A line forms between his eyebrows. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you never cease to surprise me,” I murmur just as a waiter swoops by with a stone bowl full of mashed avocado, a basket of tortilla chips, and our salt-rimmed concoctions.
“In a good way?” Cillian asks.
“Yes, Cillian. In a good way.” I pick up a chip and nibble on the three corners.
“Did you have a nice day?”
“No.”
His eyebrows slant, vanishing behind the top of his glasses’ black rim. “Why?”
“Just one of those days.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” I nip off another piece of chip.
“I’m here if you change your mind.”
The chair in front of mine grinds against the tiled floor as Jeneva sinks into it. “I don’t really get it. You don’t seem like each other’s type. Hope that doesn’t come off as rude.”
Cillian’s pupils shrink. “Electra is exactly—”
I press my knuckles to his mouth to silence him. “What type of girl do you see Cillian with?” I can’t help but ask. “Someone more like you?”
Cillian catches my hand and drags it down in the space between his legs, then laces our fingers together. I let him fold his fingers around mine—to sell the illusion.
“Just someone softer and…I don’t know”—she munches on a chip, then swallows—“perkier. You’re like the poster child for doom and gloom.”
I snort, grab my margarita, and take a swig. For some reason, I forget I got the deadly-spicy one. My mouth and throat feel like they’ve caught fire. My veins, too. Holy fuck…
I cough. Splutter.
“Water!” Cillian shouts.
“Actually, milk works better.” I hear Jeneva say.
My eyes water. I blindly reach for the nearest glass. It turns out to be the dregs of Cillian’s vodka. I shoot it down, ice cubes and all. They feel like a balm against my scorching throat, but too soon, the fiery sensation returns.
I grab a chip and heap it with guacamole, then jam it inside my mouth.
My eardrums buzz, as though the fire is spreading.
Holy fucking fuck.
I wolf down another chip and then another. A glass of milk finally appears. Cillian seizes it and carries it to my mouth. I gulp it down, and although it doesn’t douse the fire, it does soften its blaze.
I think I hear Cillian yell at Jeneva and the latter answer: “Hey, I warned her it was strong.”
“How is that drink legal?” I croak.
Cillian brackets my face with his palms, forcing my eyes to his. “Are you all right?”
He looks wild, as though Jeneva were some ill-intentioned Holy Hunter who just made an actual attempt on my life.
I swallow, but my throat feels like melted plastic, so my saliva just pools in my mouth. “Remind me never to order anything edible or drinkable containing the word Reaper.”
Cillian drags his thumbs over my cheekbones.
My chest feels warm…and not because of my awful drink, but because no one—outside my family and Calanthe—has ever looked so concerned about my wellbeing.
“I’m fine,” I rasp.
His gray eyes don’t merely skim over my expression; they till. I wrap my fingers around his wrists, intent on putting an end to his intensity before he can spot all the things I’d prefer to keep hidden. For now.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, pressing to loosen his grip.
Although his hands slide away, his attention doesn’t.
“Fine, I see it,” Jeneva says, licking the salt rim of her glass before taking a sip.
“What do you see?” I ask, as Cillian loads up a chip and offers it to me, insisting I eat it to repair the damage caused by my drink.
“That you’re hot for each other.” She wrinkles her nose. “I was honestly hoping it was one-sided—or no-sided at all. Cillian, please tell me you have some single friends for me.”
My insides swelter again, but not because of any ghost pepper this time.
“There is this one trainer at my gym…”
As he tells Jeneva about Carlos, I study the veiny hand he’s set on my thigh.
Why do I suddenly want to know how many bodies it’s stroked?