James is easy enough to talk to, in the way that men who are used to getting what they want tend to be. He sells cars. I can tell before he says it — the cologne is expensive, the Rolex sits on the bar like an invitation, the Louis Vuitton wallet gets set down with just enough deliberateness to be accidental. He asks aboutme the way people do when they want to seem curious, eyes dropping to my body between questions.
"What's your drink?"
"Vodka Red Bull."
He flags down Nico without looking away from me, which I'll admit is a reasonable move.
Over his shoulder I catch the girls drifting out to the patio. I make a mental note. We rode together and I've had enough that the room is starting to soften around the edges, the bass from the speakers pressing against my chest, the lights a little brighter than they were an hour ago.
"What brought a southern belle to Miami?" His eyes do the thing again.
"Fell in love with the city in college." He doesn't need the longer version.
We talk for another few minutes, easy and surface-level. At some point he gestures vaguely behind me, toward a table of men who don't look over. I turn back and catch something shift in his expression, a quick adjustment, a near miss with his beer bottle. Strange.
I drain my drink. "I should find my friends. We rode together."
"I'll help you look."
The patio is empty. No Mel, no Dee, no Staci, no Meghan. The music seems louder suddenly. My heartbeat is in my ears and the lights are blurring at the edges and I'm grateful, more grateful than I want to be, that someone is standing next to me.
We push back through the bar. Near the door I catch a face that stops me. Familiar. Caramel eyes, wide now, fixed on mine. I know those eyes. I can't place them and then James has my elbow and we're moving again, out the door, into the thick wall of Miami humidity.
"I still don't see them." My voice sounds far away.
"I wonder if they went this way."
We're walking. The street tips slightly. My heels are wrong on the pavement and everything is spinning in a way that has nothing to do with how much I've had to drink, or not only that.
"I need to sit down."
"There are more bars down this alley, come on."
"No — I need to?—"
I don't finish the sentence. My stomach empties itself onto the gravel and my knees follow, skirt riding up as I go down, hands shaking, vision narrowing to a small bright point. I'm trying to tug the hem down, trying to keep my eyes open, and the ground is cold and the alley smells like wet concrete and I cannot get up.
James grabs my arm. "Come on. We have to find your friends."
"Get the fuck away from her."
The voice cuts through everything.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Get the fuck away from her."
Then the sound of a gun cocking. A single clean mechanical click in the dark.
Silence.
That's the last thing I hear.
CHAPTER 13
DIEGO
We're on our second round when I see her.