Page 59 of Tar City
“Right,” she mumbles. “Sorry. Forgot we’re pretending this is temporary.”
I take two steps toward the bed, stop myself at the last second. Distance is a rule. A wall. A promise I made to both of us. I force my voice steady. “What do you want, Sisk?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She looks down at Scotch—at the way he’s watching me like I’m both master and threat.
“Whose blood was in the bathroom?”
The overhead light flickers.
Sisk’s gaze lifts slowly, pins me. “You told me not to ask questions,” she says. “And then you left evidence on the floor like you wanted me to.”
“That towel wasn’t supposed to—” I cut myself off. Swallow it. “You need to take your meds.”
“Answer me,” she says.
My jaw clenches. “You think you can just demand things from me now?”
Her chin lifts. “I think I already did.”
Scotch whines, caught between us.
I turn away because if I look at her, I’ll tell her the truth, and then she’ll leave, and then the next full moon will eat the city.
“Food,” I say. “Then one question.”
Her brows knit. “One question.”
“One a day,” I say, and I hate myself because it sounds like control but it’s really desperation dressed up as authority. “You’ve got twenty-nine left.”
“This isn’t a game, Jax.”
“It is,” I say, colder than I mean to. “It’s the only way you stay and heal long enough to hate me properly.”
She goes still and then her eyes soften.
“Fine,” she says. “Noodles.”
“Okay,” I say. “What kind.”
She gestures vaguely. “Any. Instant. Don’t get fancy. I’m sure you remember—my taste isn’t… refined.”
A thread of memories twists in my chest. Too many fucking memories.
“You don’t have to say it like that,” I tell her.
“Like what?” she snaps. “Like I’m poor? Like I don’t belong in your world?”
“Does this look like fancy to you?” I gesture to the room. “You’ve belonged in my world since we met, fuck, you are the sole reason my world spins.” The words are out before I can stop them, a fucking slip-up. I see her expression shift, and I have to backtrack, fast before she starts doubting my douchebag attitude is a facade. “I mean, never mind. Shit, I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. You drive me fucking insane, you know?”
The light flickers again.
Sisk’s eyes dart to it then to me.
“Stop with the lights,” she asks quietly.
“I’m not—” I start.
“Yes, you are,” she cuts in.
