the rest of his drink, spilling a dribble down his chin.
Counting to three in his head and forcing what he hoped looked like a grin instead of a grimace onto his face, Charles reminded himself that hitting Brent would screw everything up. Not just for him, but for Rachel, too.
Brent continued to eye the dancers appreciatively, even leaning far too close to a waitress when she brought him another in a long line of bourbons, but he never moved in for a phone number or a close whisper.
“You almost got married before, right?” Charles didn’t miss the sharp glance Brent shot his direction at the question, but he pushed anyway. “Rachel mentioned it.”
“That girl doesn’t care for me. Kind of a busybody, if you ask me. But I guess you can’t always pick your in-laws.”
Evasive. Charles tried again. “Came to your senses before you got stuck, huh?”
“You know it!” A jovial grin that didn’t reach his eyes overtook Brent’s mouth, and he downed the rest of his drink, obviously relieved that he didn’t seem to know the whole story. He leaned toward Charles over the table, gesturing for him to move closer. “Look, I know that this is a fun trip between friends and all, but I thought we could talk about that job a little, now that there aren’t so many prying eyes around to hear us.”
Charles wasn’t sure which was worse, the fact that Brent thought eyes could hear or the man’s whiskey-laden breath, but he kept his face impassive. “Sure, man. I don’t want to go into too many details right now—way to ruin a party, right?—but let’s just say I got your back.” He shot Brent a wink and the man slapped his thigh.
“Fucking-A! That’s what I’m talking about. Now we can celebrate.” He stood and motioned for the waitress before half falling back into his chair. “Not that I need the job—I got money and a fucking degree from Harvard. But it’d be nice to work for a non-jackass for once. Some people just get under your skin, know what I mean?”
Charles knew exactly what he meant.
Chapter Six
What a waste of a night.
Charles stomped his wet boots on the hotel’s carpet one last time and then headed for Rachel’s room. It was close to two o’clock in the morning, but he had no doubt that she’d be waiting up for him. Not only was she going to be disappointed, Charles hadn’t been able to push Brent for anything about Alice, either. No matter how cleverly he’d pressed, Brent had evaded his questions. Even drunk, he’d been crafty. And one more question would have pushed him into angry territory—or worse, made him suspicious.
Not only had Brent not made a move on anyone, but he’d gotten so drunk that Charles was forced to half carry him back to his room, where a sleepy-yet-still-angry Kristen had taken over his care.
The desire to use his powers on Brent had been almost overwhelming. To make him kiss a waitress or confess about Alice, Charles wasn’t sure. Even worse, he’d considered using a bit of energy on a woman at the club to push her to make a move on Brent. How low would that have been? Not that he hadn’t used his powers in less-than-squeaky-clean ways before, but that felt like a line. One he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross, even for the intriguing Rachel. Moreover, he wasn’t sure it was a line she’d thank him for crossing.
The door flew open when he was mid-knock.
Worry pinched her expression and she glanced down the hallway before pulling him into her room.
“Always dragging me around.”
“What happened?” she hissed, as if they might be overheard even with the hallway clear and the door closed tight behind them.
“Nothing happened, hence me not calling you.”
She sniffed, then, leaning close with her hands on her hips, she sniffed him. “You smell like glitter.”
“Glitter doesn’t have a scent—not one that your weak human nose can detect, anyway. And it wasn’t that kind of place.”
“Yeah,” she scoffed, “I’m sure it was a
Counting to three in his head and forcing what he hoped looked like a grin instead of a grimace onto his face, Charles reminded himself that hitting Brent would screw everything up. Not just for him, but for Rachel, too.
Brent continued to eye the dancers appreciatively, even leaning far too close to a waitress when she brought him another in a long line of bourbons, but he never moved in for a phone number or a close whisper.
“You almost got married before, right?” Charles didn’t miss the sharp glance Brent shot his direction at the question, but he pushed anyway. “Rachel mentioned it.”
“That girl doesn’t care for me. Kind of a busybody, if you ask me. But I guess you can’t always pick your in-laws.”
Evasive. Charles tried again. “Came to your senses before you got stuck, huh?”
“You know it!” A jovial grin that didn’t reach his eyes overtook Brent’s mouth, and he downed the rest of his drink, obviously relieved that he didn’t seem to know the whole story. He leaned toward Charles over the table, gesturing for him to move closer. “Look, I know that this is a fun trip between friends and all, but I thought we could talk about that job a little, now that there aren’t so many prying eyes around to hear us.”
Charles wasn’t sure which was worse, the fact that Brent thought eyes could hear or the man’s whiskey-laden breath, but he kept his face impassive. “Sure, man. I don’t want to go into too many details right now—way to ruin a party, right?—but let’s just say I got your back.” He shot Brent a wink and the man slapped his thigh.
“Fucking-A! That’s what I’m talking about. Now we can celebrate.” He stood and motioned for the waitress before half falling back into his chair. “Not that I need the job—I got money and a fucking degree from Harvard. But it’d be nice to work for a non-jackass for once. Some people just get under your skin, know what I mean?”
Charles knew exactly what he meant.
Chapter Six
What a waste of a night.
Charles stomped his wet boots on the hotel’s carpet one last time and then headed for Rachel’s room. It was close to two o’clock in the morning, but he had no doubt that she’d be waiting up for him. Not only was she going to be disappointed, Charles hadn’t been able to push Brent for anything about Alice, either. No matter how cleverly he’d pressed, Brent had evaded his questions. Even drunk, he’d been crafty. And one more question would have pushed him into angry territory—or worse, made him suspicious.
Not only had Brent not made a move on anyone, but he’d gotten so drunk that Charles was forced to half carry him back to his room, where a sleepy-yet-still-angry Kristen had taken over his care.
The desire to use his powers on Brent had been almost overwhelming. To make him kiss a waitress or confess about Alice, Charles wasn’t sure. Even worse, he’d considered using a bit of energy on a woman at the club to push her to make a move on Brent. How low would that have been? Not that he hadn’t used his powers in less-than-squeaky-clean ways before, but that felt like a line. One he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross, even for the intriguing Rachel. Moreover, he wasn’t sure it was a line she’d thank him for crossing.
The door flew open when he was mid-knock.
Worry pinched her expression and she glanced down the hallway before pulling him into her room.
“Always dragging me around.”
“What happened?” she hissed, as if they might be overheard even with the hallway clear and the door closed tight behind them.
“Nothing happened, hence me not calling you.”
She sniffed, then, leaning close with her hands on her hips, she sniffed him. “You smell like glitter.”
“Glitter doesn’t have a scent—not one that your weak human nose can detect, anyway. And it wasn’t that kind of place.”
“Yeah,” she scoffed, “I’m sure it was a
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