Oops.
“Uh-oh.”
“That’s okay.” She heard the rattle of plastic and what might be him swiping at his pants.
She tipped her head all the way back and searched for the stars. The sky whirled and dipped and seemed to pulse. Orange-red light pollution blotted out all the constellations. Nothing to see but the hot burn of humanity beaming up into the nighttime clouds.
“Cassandra? Cassandra, hey. It’sreallycold. Let’s go back inside.”
What…? What is…?
Oh. Sig.
She tipped her head forward, and then kept tipping, tipping, tipping.
“Whoa.” Hands gripped her shoulders, and pushed her back upright. Sig’s face was very close. His eyes were very big, and very dark, and she wondered if he might kiss her. “You okay?”
“I…”
Bang. A loud sound drew her attention toward the street, such as it was. Swirly and irregular and making her sick.
She swallowed hard, and caught a flash of white. Saw movement.
“Hey.” Oh, that was a voice. A familiar voice. That was Shep!
“Shep!” she cheered.
“What the hell are you doing?” Shep barked, but before she could say,sitting on the curb, what does it look like, dumbass?he charged forward. “Get away from her. What the fuck?”
Oh. He was barking at Sig. That wasn’t very nice. Sig had brought her a blanket, after all.
Sig let go of her, and Shep’s legs appeared before her, blocking Sig from view. “Sheppy,” she protested, pawing at the back of his jeans-clad knee.
“Shit, I didn’t—look, man, I wasn’t—I—sorry,” Sig stammered, and a scuffle on the concrete was followed by the slap of sneaker soles. A few beats later, the door to the house slammed shut.
Sig was gone. Damn.
But, in other news, Shep’s calf wasfirmunder his jeans. Holy shit. And was his thigh…yep. That was nice, too.
“Okay, stop groping me, how drunk are you?” Shep grumbled, and moved away from her.
“No,” she protested, but then the world folded and unfolded, and Shep’s familiar face was right in front of hers. It took far too long to comprehend that he’d squatted down in front of her, that it was not Sig’s, but his much larger, stronger hands that held her shoulders now. “Oh. Hi.”
The first time she met Shepherd, she’d been struck by the sheer meanness of his face. His lean, angular jaw, the hard set of his mouth, the sharp way he smiled, the dark, hooded eyes. He looked like someone who’d gotten his nose broken in a bar fight, and then killed the man who’d done the deed.
But she’d quickly learned that looking mean wasn’t the same as being mean. He was gruff, and crass, and inappropriate, but not frightening. Not to her. Her dad and her brothers all looked pretty benign, and three of them were literal assassins. Shep’s mean look, she’d decided, was more cute than anything—if middle-aged ex-military medics who liked dick jokes too much could be cute.
His face was set at its meanest angles now, lips pressed to a narrow slash, his eyes big and glossy in the glow of the lamppost. It was the clearest she’d seen anything since the last, fateful sip of her punch, and it was a relief to know that her eyesstill worked properly. A kaleidoscope of whirling lights and color limned his jaw, the top of his head. He’d had a haircut recently, short on the sides, a little spiky on top.
She wanted to touch it.
Oh, she was. That was her hand petting his hair, wasn’t it?
He made an impatient sound and brushed her hand away. Held her wrist so she couldn’t reach for him again. Then he leaned in even closer, until their noses almost touched, his eyes tracking back and forth.
“What did you take?” he asked. “Your pupils are fucking huge. You’re not drunk, you’re high.”
“I didn’t…it was…fuck.” Why was talking so hard? “I just had punch. Three sips!”
