Page 79 of Lethal in Pink

I couldn't tell you a single joke the guy on stage told. All I’m aware of is the terrifying weight of how badly I want to turn my hand over, thread my fingers through hers, and drag her out of this room.

Instead, I just sit there in the dark, staring at the pink flush high on her cheekbones, quietly taking it. I’d sit on these terrible metal chairs every night of the week until my back gave out, just to let her pull me apart like this.

When the show wraps, we step back out onto the cooling pavement. The crowds have thinned, leaving long, distorted shadows under the streetlights.

“That was actually good,” she says softly, the frantic energy of the night settling into something easier.

“Yeah.” I hand her pink purse back, sliding the gold-accented strap off my shoulder. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, lingering half a second too long before she pulls away.

We walk the ten minutes back toward her building, the conversation winding down into a low hum. When we reach the curved drive, her car is parked right where she left it under the glow of a security light.

Amiyah stops beside the driver's side door and turns to face me.

The air between us turns heavy all at once. She shifts her weight, her arms crossing over her chest, then uncrossing, her fingers nervously snagging on the hem of her hoodie.

“Thanks for the food, Jae,” she says softly.

“Thanks for not flaking.”

She takes a small step forward. I close the gap.

Our arms find each other in that clumsy, uncoordinated geometry of two people trying not to make a hug weird. Her arms wrap around my waist, her head hitting my collarbone. My arms go around her shoulders, pulling her solid and warm against my chest.

We hold it a second too long. We let go a second too fast.

Her hands drop. I shove mine deep into my pants pockets before I do something stupid.

I want to kiss her so badly it aches. I look at her mouth—the soft curve of her bottom lip, the faint sheen of lip balm—and every instinct screams at me to back her up against the cold metal of her car door, to press my weight into hers and finally feel her hands thread through my hair, her body arching against mine until there’s no air left between us.

Instead, her eyes are wide and careful, watching my face like she’s trying to read the fine print on a contract she’s not sure she signed.

So I stay put. Hands buried, heart hammering.

“Goodnight, Jae,” she whispers.

“Goodnight, Amiyah.”

She unlocks the door, sliding behind the wheel, and gives me a final, quiet look before pulling it shut.

I stand on the pavement for a long minute, watching her headlights sweep across the asphalt as she backs out and drives away.

The night air hits my face, cool and sharp. I run the whole evening back—her laugh in the dark room, the ridiculous weight of her pink purse against my hip, the exact feeling of her ribs against mine.

I turn and start the long walk back to my apartment, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets, completely unable to stop the grin from spreading across my face.

Chapter twenty-seven

Amiyah

We’re halfway up Mulholland Drive and the night air feels like warm silk against my bare legs. Jae’s black-on-black sports car handles the hairpin curves with a lazy, arrogant grace, the low-slung engine growling and barely breaking a sweat as we climb higher into the dark, the city spilling out behind us in a slow-motion smear of neon white and bruised violet and iron-grey shadow.

I’m wearing a pink plaid skirt and a fitted tank top that I told myself had absolutely nothing to do with him when I put it on, and the lie is so transparent I’m almost impressed with my own audacity.

His text had arrived at 10:37 PM.

Jae: Bored and restless. Want a ride? I’ll pick you up.

I’d read it three times. The subtext was screaming so loud I could hear it from my bedroom. I typed back sure why not with the detached casualness of someone agreeing to a dental cleaning, then spent twenty minutes staring at my closet before pulling out the skirt.