Page 57 of What We Bury

I sigh. “Not really. I mean, Tyler comes from money so he prefers it when she stays at his place. But Amy is normally back here Sunday night. She has work tomorrow.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah. She said she’s fine. But I don’t think Tyler likes me now.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“Well, the first time I go to a party his best friend takes off without saying anything.”

He leans against the wall of my bedroom. “They’re not buying that he flew to San Jose?”

I shrug. “I’m sure you guys did a great job selling that story. But it doesn’t change the fact that to my roommate and her friends, it looks like I did something to make him take off.”

He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Some people just need someone to blame.”

“Guess I’m first in line.” I exhale a shaky, bitter laugh. “Not like I’d blame them. If Amy disappeared, I’d assume the worst of Tyler, too.”

Not that I care what Tyler thinks of me. My biggest concern here is Amy. She’s the only genuine friend I’ve made since coming to Hunter Harbor, and I’m afraid that if her boyfriend sours on me it’ll color the way she sees me. I don’t want to lose her. Not now, when I need her more than ever.

I flex my toes under the blanket and study Micah’s face. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost feminine—high cheekbones, full mouth, lashes that would make a mascara model weep. But there’s nothing soft about his eyes. They’re dark and deep and ancient, like he’s seen things that aged him decades in a handful of years.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty-six.”

“You look younger.”

“I get that a lot.” His mouth curves, but it’s not quite a smile. “Baby face. It’s useful in my line of work.”

“Which is?”

“Bartending, mostly. I work at a club in the city.” He tilts his head, studying me.

“What kind of club?”

He thinks on that for a moment. “The kind of place where it’s safe to be yourself.”

“Be yourself, how?”

He smiles, folds his arms a little tighter. “It’s a sex club. Anything goes, as long as everyone involved is enthusiastically consenting.”

There’s no coyness in the way he says it, no shame or bravado. Just a flat, self-aware fact.

I blink. “Wait—like,Eyes Wide Shutstuff? Or, like, orgies and leather and . . .?”

He shrugs, his mouth twitching at the corners. “It’s more Velvet Underground than Nine Inch Nails. Consent is king, and no one fucks with anyone who’s not actively agreeing.” I try to picture it—the beautiful, haunted man in front of me, surrounded by moneyed patrons sipping top-shelf gin and tonic while watching strangers fuck on neon-lit stages.

He notices. Leans in a little, crouching so our eyes are level. “You can visit, if you want.”

“Your club?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to participate. You can watch. Or don’t watch. Or just sit at the bar and stare at me if that makes you feel safe.”

It sounds like a joke but he says it completely straight and I have no idea how to respond. There’s a weird tightness in my chest, suspiciously like the kind I get before I do something reckless. “Participate in what exactly?”

“I’ll tell you more when you’re ready for it.” He gives me a wink, and it does something funny to my insides. I open my mouth to push for more. But then I close it again when I realize that maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t want to know. Yet.

“Anyway, I should go.” He shifts his weight, about to leave. “Let you get back to sleep. I’ll fix the lock tomorrow, I promise.”