Page 5 of Stealing Cinder

My spine straightens. I know that voice. The soft lilt that simmers with warmth and wickedness.

I turn on my stool.

Lavender slides in beside me, and the scent of her arrives first. Warm vanilla and white tea, clean and expensive and distinctly her. Glossy flame-red hair spills over one shoulder, catching the amber neon overhead and burning copper at the tips. Electric blue eyes meet mine, shifting toward slate gray in the dim light, that trick of hers where the right angle turns her irises an impossible shade of violet. Her lips curve up but her jaw is tight, and the tight pull between her brows softens only halfway when she smiles. The worry lines etched at the corners of her eyes hold firm. She's carrying a heavy weight of her own tonight. But she's looking like fire while doing it.

Warm arms wrap around me, squeezing.

"I haven't seen you in forever. Where the hell have you been keeping yourself?"

My oldest friend and one-time college roomie pulls back, keeps her hands on my shoulders, and pins me with those shifting eyes. "Whatever you've been up to, don't ever do that again. We agreed on daily messages."

The guilt hits low in my stomach. I dropped out of college a year in to open a coffee shop much to my father’s dismay. That was three years ago. We promised to stay close and we did until about a year ago.

In that time Lavender lost her father too. It’s barely been six months. Instead of reaching out, I was the worst friend possible. And then my dad was taken from me a week ago today. I disappeared into my own grief and left her calls unanswered.

"I know. I'm sorry. Things got…”

"Bad. I heard." Her voice drops, to where it only passes between us. "I'm so sorry about your dad, Cin."

“And I’m sorry about yours. I don’t know why I went silent for so long. Then dad…”

My jaw tightens. The burn behind my eyes is instant and savage. I force the tears back in the same way I did during the reading of my father’s will, in the car, and in the elevator ride up here. I refuse to break down. It feels like letting the assholes win and dad would admonish the idea flat out.

I tighten my arms around her. “I’m the worst friend and I have no right to ask, but please forgive me.”

Lavender leans down and puts her light blues level with mine.

“Sometimes we have to take a step back and just focus on ourselves. Don't ever apologize for that. Now give me another hug.”

I throw my arms around my friend and breathe her in, vanilla and white tea and steady hands on my back, until the knot behind my ribs loosens a fraction.

"Thank you," I choke out, swallowing enough times that my tears get the memo to dry up already.

She breaks away and places a warm hand over mine. Her nails are painted a soft mauve, pristine and professional. She's working tonight, the fitted black dress and subtle name badge marking her as the Gilded Key's manager. She started as a hostess for the Society in Seattle and transferred here to take over as manager.

I slide my drink her way and she swallows back a healthy dose of the dirty martini.

"She did it, Lav." I keep my voice low, pitched just for her. "Francesca. I can't prove it yet. But I know to the depths of my soul my stepmother had my father killed."

Her fingers squeeze mine. "I’d be very careful with who you tell that to, babe. Please. Knowing your stepmother and her evil spawn, I believe you. But accusing someone without proof is dangerous."

My head swirls with the lawyer's voice, the cold expression on my stepmother’s face and the arrogant silliness I caught from my two stepsisters. "Yeah, I don’t really care anymore, Lavender. I'm so over being careful."

She raises perfectly shaped brows at me. "I can see that." A flash of dry concern pulls at her mouth. "I don’t mean to judge but is that the same dress from your father's funeral?"

Heat hits my cheeks. "I like to call it multitasking." I pause a beat and give her a real answer. “I couldn’t fathom the idea of going back to the shop or home. I didn’t want to be alone tonight. I swiped right on a dude and he’s supposed to meet me here for a hookup.”

She almost laughs. Almost. The sound gets caught behind her professional composure and comes out as a quiet exhale through her nose. I take it. It's the closest thing to joy I've been near all day.

Her gaze drifts across the lounge. I follow it. Three men occupy a banquette against the far wall. All three have broad shoulders and tailored suits. Even from this distance I can tell they own every room they walk into without even trying. Their eyes lift to find Lavender, and the heat crackling across the distance between them is hot enough even I feel it.

She looks away first. Her throat bobs on a hard swallow, and the professional composure she wears so well slips for half a second. Just long enough for me to catch the raw ache beneath it. Her fingers curl against the marble bar top, pressing white at the tips.

The three men stand in unison and slip toward the mirrored corridor at the back of the lounge without a word.

Lavender's gaze stays fixed on her own hands. The tight pull between her brows is back, deeper now, and her bottom lip disappears between her teeth before she catches herself and smooths her expression flat.

I take Lavender's hand. She stiffens for a fraction of a second, her breath catching quiet enough that I only know because her shoulder hitches. Then her fingers curl through mine and squeeze.