That little bit of surrender does something to me. Not sexual exactly, though that is there too. It’s deeper. Harder to name. Like watching a door unlatch from the inside.
I take my drink and turn to the room.
People are still watching.
Let them.
I guide Amelia toward a booth along the side wall. Not the darkest one. Not the most exposed either. A good vantage point. My back doesn’t go to the door because I ain’t stupid. Hers doesn’t either because I ain’t cruel.
Before she sits, I lean close. “Still okay?”
“With your hand?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. “Yes.”
I slide my hand away before sitting across from her.
She notices that too.
The booth is curved, scarred wood, old leather, private enough for conversation, public enough for performance. Amelia sets her drink down and looks around like she is trying to catalog everything before it jumps at her.
“This is the neutral place?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“It feels like a bar fight waiting for permission.”
“That’s neutrality in Hell.”
She looks at the photos on the wall. Her gaze catches on one of Legendary Mike from years back, standing in the Fire Pit with a bourbon raised, a young Legend beside him looking mean and half-grown. I know the photo. I avoid looking at it most days.
Amelia doesn’t.
Her face goes quiet.
“That’s him,” she says.
I follow her gaze. “Yeah.”
“He looks happy.”
“He was drinking and being admired. That was his preferred climate.”
Her lips press together.
I immediately regret saying it.
“Sorry.”
“No.” She looks back at the photo. “My mother said he was impossible not to look at when he wanted attention.”
“That was true.”
“You knew him?”
“Yeah.”