Page 137 of Nyx

"I did," I tell him without going into detail.

I don't want to sound like I'm bragging when it's clear he had a rough night.

I blow the top of my coffee, trying to cool it off.

"That's good," he says, his eyes running the length of me before locking on my face. I don't know if he's trying to determine whether I'm lying.

I give him a soft smile before blowing on my coffee again.

I don't mind his eyes on me, and honestly, knowing I have all of his attention in this moment makes my body come alive. It's a very unfamiliar feeling, and I don't know what to do with the attention.

"Are you about ready to head out?" I ask, hating the idea that if he keeps watching me as closely as he is, he'll find that I'm lacking something he expects me to have.

"Ready when you are," he says, but there seems to be a hesitation in his movement toward the front door.

"What's wrong?" I ask, wondering if something happened last night while I was asleep.

A tremble of fear begins inside of me, and I know it's my body's natural reaction. My mind always turns to the bad rather than thinking that anything good can happen in my life.

"Is there any chance you'd want to skip the fundraiser?"

I watch his eyes for a second.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Kincaid told you about Whitmore," he says, even though he wasn't in that meeting.

"He did," I say.

"We don't know that anything can happen today, but we do know there's a chance."

"So nothing has happened directly?"

"Other than the flower delivery and him skipping town after getting released from parole?" he says, as if that information alone should keep me inside for the foreseeable future.

"Yes," I say, standing a little taller.

I don't know if the confidence they give me by being around to keep me safe is smart, but it's the first time in a long time that I've felt like I have someone on my side, and I want to live in it for a little while.

He looks away, and that voice grows louder in my mind, the one telling me that my first instinct to stay behind at the shelter rather than attend the event in the park is the one I should listen to.

"The tire last night," he begins.

"It's not the first flat that I've had," I interrupt.

"The air was released. There was no puncture," he says.

"Do they have video of Graham letting the air out?"

"The cameras in the parking lot don't work."

"So it could've been some bored teenagers?"

His lips form a flat line. "I don't think that's the case."

I want to cry, and it takes all my attention not to let tears run down my face.