The room that was warm a second ago turns cold as ice.
She opens the drawer and takes out the phone.
No caller ID.
Just a message.
Her face changes as she reads it.
“What?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
I reach for my jeans and pull them on because whatever this is, I don’t want to face it naked. Not because I’m modest. Because trouble deserves pants.
Amelia hands me the phone.
The message is short.
Crown’s straight. Time to use it.
Below it, another line appears while I’m looking.
Need a favor, Diva. Bring your pretty backbone.
My jaw tightens.
Hot Mama.
Or one of hers.
The hook I smelled in Oregon has come home.
I look at Amelia.
Her hand has gone to the tattoo behind her ear.
Fear is there.
But not only fear.
Something else too.
Duty maybe.
Curiosity.
The dangerous beginning of a woman realizing she has power and debts in the same pocket.
“No,” I say.
Her eyes snap to mine.
I close my mouth.
Wrong first word.
Old habit.