Page 102 of The Next Lie

I straighten and wipe my palms on my jeans. “I need a drink.”

“It’s lunch.”

“I didn’t ask for a clock.”

Sonny nods firmly. “She needs a terrible Hurricane.”

Ever looks like he wants to argue with both of us. Then his phone buzzes. He checks it, and his expression shuts down.

There it is again. Whatever thing it is everyone is hiding.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“If one more man says nothing to me today, I’m going to start biting.”

Sonny brightens. “Honestly, I support it.”

Ever pockets the phone. “Get the drink. Then back to Noir.”

His voice leaves no room for debate.

That makes me want to debate anyway, but Sonny is already moving, and my legs are still unreliable after Madame Doom in the back of the voodoo shop. We end up at a bar with neon in the window, sticky floors, and a bartender who makes Hurricanes from a machine with the confidence of a man committing a misdemeanor.

The drink is red, cold, and tastes like cough syrup went to college. I take one sip and gag. Sonny laughs so hard she has to hold on to the bar.

“This is terrible.”

“It’s tradition.”

“New Orleans owes me an apology.”

“Drink half of it.”

“Fuck that.”

I drink half of it.

Ever stands near the doorway, arms crossed, pretending he is not watching the street through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His phone stays in his hand. He checks it twice in ten minutes. Sonny catches me watching him and bumps my shoulder.

“Maybe he’s just bad at relaxing.”

“He’s bad at lying.”

“They all are.”

“No. They’re good at lying. They’re bad at remembering I’m not stupid.”

She gives me a look. “That may be the most accurate thing you’ve said all day.”

By the time we head back to Noir, the sun is high enough to make the sidewalk glare. The Hurricane sloshes in my stomach like a bad decision. Sonny chatters beside me, trying too hard now, pointing out a balcony where some famous musician maybe once threw a shoe at someone. Ever trails us more closely this time.

Too closely.

My suspicion has teeth by the time we turn onto the block. Noir sits ahead, doors locked, blinds half drawn.

A black SUV idles near the curb. Nash stands on the sidewalk by its window, body angled like a wall.