“Obviously.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what you think it means: that you willobviouslycall me on my shit. No more, no less. That’s all it means.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, that’s true. I will.”
“Jesus. You’re insane.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I can’t even blame you for being out of touch, honestly. I mean, how are you supposed to know what’s normal? Just look at your effing shoes, for crying out loud. How much did those things cost?”
I look down at my shoes.
“More than a thousand bucks?” she asks.
I flash her an annoyed look.
“I thought so.” She shakes her head. “You never stood a chance.”
“Again, you lick my balls and punch ’em at the same time.”
She laughs.
For a moment, we look out the window at the rat-haired horror shows dragging their sorry asses down The Strip in the pre-dawn light.
“Oh, look at that poor girl,” I say pointing to a young woman who unintentionally looks like an extra in theThrillervideo.
“Poor baby,” Kat says. “Doing the Walk of Shame inVegasis like reaching the Super Bowl in the sport.” She shakes her head. “I’ve done the walk of shame a time or two myself—but never inVegas.I’ve got mystandards,for crying out loud.”
I laugh.
“To be honest, it always pisses me off that people say womenare doing a ‘walk of shame,’ but they never say that about guys. I mean it takes two to tango, right?”
“Absolutely.” I look out the window. “I’ve definitely done my share of shame-walking.” I scoff. “I’ve done my share of everything, actually. I was a bit out of control for a while.”
“But not anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
“Was The Club part of your out-of-control phase?” she asks.
Goddammit. I hate that she knows about The Club. There’s no other circumstance in which a woman I’m interested in would know about that. “No,” I say. “The Club was just a short vacation from my adult responsibilities. I did thatwayafter my out-of-control phase. It was just a blip. No more or less.”
“And now it’s over—the blip, I mean?”
“Yeah, now it’s over.”
“Until the next blip.”
I don’t reply—but she’s pegged me right. Surely, another blip’s coming at some point. When your brother is Jonas—and you’re his only lifeline—losing your shit for more than a blip here or there just isn’t an option.
“Tell me the story of why you got your ‘grace’ tattoo,” she says. “Were you drunk and high in Thailand for that one, too?”
I look out the window of the cab. “No, I got that particular tattoo in L.A. when I was stone-cold sober,” I say. “I was twenty-three and recently out of school—it took me a little while to graduate—and I decided it was time to stop throwing my life away on total and complete bullshit and start living a life that my...” I swallow hard. “ThatIcould be proud of.” I shrug. “I decided to start living up to my name. So I decided to open a satellite office of Faraday & Sons and stop destroying myself, and the rest is history.”
“And did you?”
“Yeah, I opened the L.A. office about the time Jonas took over the main Seattle office.”
