“Do you know where she lives?” I asked, because I hadn’t found a current address listed for her, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d eventually left town.

The girl grew wary at that point, and said she didn’t feel comfortable telling me.

I gave a vague excuse, saying I was a distant cousin on her father’s side, but she didn’t budge.

By the time I left the library, it was just after six, and my eyes were wrecked from too much reading. I hit up the closest hotel I could find and rented the cheapest room they had. I just needed a few hours of sleep. Maybe when I woke—and after I had a drink or two—all the shit I’d found today would make more sense.

Maybe.

11

NICK

I WOKE AFTER DARK AND TOSSED BACK two shots of whiskey before leaving my room. Outside on the street, I headed north and walked for a while before catching the distant thumping of bass. I found a nightclub with a sign out front that read ARROW in big neon-green letters. The line was short, and my thirst for booze was large, so I decided the club was good enough.

Inside, the music was ratcheted up to toxic levels so that everyone had to shout to be heard. Colored lights circled the space, and a floor-to-ceiling projection screen behind the DJ flipped through random images.

The place was packed, which gave me the distinct impression this was the only club in Trademarr, therefore the only thing to do. The number of sweaty bodies packed into this place must have been half the town’s population.

I went straight for the bar. The bartender, a thirty-something guy with a buzzed head, checked for the neon-green bracelet on my wrist that said I was old enough to get plastered. When I passed the test, he asked for my order.

“Tequila,” I said. “The best you got.”

When the shot glass was thrust in front of me, I slammed it back, and a female voice hollered behind me.

I turned as the girl slid onto the stool next to me. “Get straight to the nasty stuff, I see,” she said.

I flicked a finger at the bartender for another round. “You don’t like tequila?” I asked the girl.

She had a green bracelet on her wrist, too, so at least twenty-one, though she didn’t look it. All her features were soft and rounded off, like she hadn’t matured into herself yet. Her eyes were big and bright, and though her smoky voice had the upswing of a flirty vibe, her gaze said otherwise.

I knew a predator when I saw one. Which made me wonder—in what twisted world did I look like prey?

“I like tequila just fine,” she said, and folded her hands on the bar top. “It’s what comes after the tequila I don’t like.”

“You mean the blackouts? Or the hangover?”

She smiled. “Both. Obviously.”

The tempo of the music picked up, and I could feel the thrumming of the electronic beat in my chest.

“You want a shot?” I asked her, and she quickly nodded. I amended the order for one more.

When I went straight for the booze, the mystery girl stopped me with a hand on my forearm. I looked down at her fingers spread over my skin and tamped down the urge to yank my arm away.

“What?” I said, as lazily as I could manage.

“You drink tequila, you drink it right.” She handed me a shaker of salt, and I rolled my eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

“I never kid.”

She licked her hand between her thumb and index finger, her eyes trained on me as she did. I held up the shaker with an arch of my brow, and she gave me her hand. I shook out some salt. I pulled back to do the same, but she snatched my hand in hers and licked it for me.

I grinned at her. She grinned back.

“Ready?” she said.

“I was ready five minutes ago.”

She laughed. We raised the shot glasses, and I swigged the tequila back after the salt, finishing it off with a bite of the lime wedge. The booze was smooth, and burned all the way down my throat, setting fire to my gut.

The girl smiled. “Another round?”

“Always,” I said.

A half hour later, the club started to teeter around me, and everything was so fucking funny, I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Dance with me,” the girl said.

I set down the shot glass hard. “I don’t dance.”

“Yes, you do.” She grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the floor.

The electronic music had been replaced with hip-hop three shots ago, and the heavy bass thumps rocketed up my legs. I got in close to the girl, our bodies pressed together so tightly, you’d need a knife to separate us.

When the song’s hook slowed the beat, the girl moved against me in equally slow, sinuous movements. The heat of the tequila in my gut sank lower, until I couldn’t think of anything else but the girl and me.

The blow of trumpets punctuated the air—what kind of hip-hop song was this?—and the girl ran her hands beneath my shirt. When she looked up at me, her head tilted back to make up the ten inches of height difference between us, I recognized that look in her eye, and who was I to ignore it?

I hunched forward and kissed her, my hands running up her body.

Hers found their way to my stomach—girls always went for the stomach.

When I pulled back, she was breathing heavily, her eyes half-lidded.

“Want to get out of here?” I asked.

She nodded, so I pulled her hand out of my shirt and tugged her toward the door.

On our way back to my hotel room, my cell rang, and I fished it out of my pocket. When I answered, I tried my hardest not to sound blasted out of my mind.