Page 49 of Riot Reunion
Michael doesn’t even scowl when he sends a nod Dash’s way. He actually looks like he’s—oh my god, he’ssmilingat him! “Very astute.”
I stand between the two men, holding my hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whatever this is, we can work it out.”
Michael arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth ticking even further northward. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You’re smiling. You just paid my boyfriend a compliment. Something’sverywrong. My money’s on you trying to lull me into a false sense of security. You’re planning on killing him, aren’t you?”
Behind me, Dash chuckles. “Jesus, Mendoza. He’s just being friendly. We’re friends now.”
There’s a hard flash in Michael’s ice-blue eyes—I don’t think helikesthe accusation per se—but he doesn’t deny it. “Dash and I have come to an accord,” he says. “I promise, I won’t be trying to murder him any time soon. Unless he does something to hurt you, that is. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” mirrors Dash, as if this is a given.
I blink, trying to parse this information, but my mind feels like it’s backfiring. “I do not like this one bit.”
“Why not?” Michael squints at a small black remote in his hands, pointing it upward, into a corner, mashing at one of the buttons. “I figured you’d be pleased.”
“I don’t trust either of you to be nice to the other. Not properly.”
Giving up on whatever he was trying to accomplish, Michael sets the remote down on the closest table, turning his attention to me. “Don’t know what to tell you, Carrie. You love the spoiled blond English boy, right?”
“Hey!” Dash hurls an irritated look over his shoulder. “Fuck you, man.” He doesn’t mean it, though. If he did, he wouldn’t immediately turn back around to resume his perusing the books on the shelf behind the host’s stand.
“Well?” prompts Michael.
“Of course I love him. You know I do.”
“And you love me too, right?”
“Yes!”
“Then it makes sense that Lovett and I cultivate peace. It’s the only way to make sure we can both keep you happy.”
This is a very rational, logical argument. It’s the kind of attitude a normal, logical person would adopt. Neither of the men in my life are very much of either, though—this situation is starting to make my brain hurt.
“The “guests” will be arriving soon.” Michael bunnies his fingers around the word ‘guests’ as if it’s code for something else. As if all of this is just for show and he’s not expecting anybody to show at all. “We’ll be eating at seven-thirty. Zeth and Sloane will arrive before then to scope the place out—”
“So we’re basically having dinner with Zeth and Sloane, then?” I ask. “Just the four of us? I didn’t need to wear a freakingdressto this thing?”
Michael eyes me, deadpan. “There’s no reason to ever dressdownfor something.” He means it, too. I’ve never seen Michael wear anything but a suit. Sure, the suit might be covered in dirt and blood sometimes, depending on what kind of day he’s having. But he wears a suit none-the-less.
Dash huffs down his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching. His eyes dance with mirth. Clearly, he knows that Michael’s commentisdirected at him, and he’s deeply entertained by it.
“Got something you wanna say there, Lovett?” Michael takes another stab at turning on some invisible device with the remote he’s picked back up again.
“Not really.” Dash turns away from the books.
“No, please. Come on. You think I’m a fool because I take care of my appearance?”
Dash shakes his head. “I think you dress well for a job that would normally require overalls. So you can take pride in it. In yourself. AndIdress down for my entire life because I am sick to death of being strangled by a fucking necktie. Because I’m supposed to be better than everyone else. Because I’m supposed to hold myself to a higher standard, when all I want is to be the same as everyone else. We do our own thing, you and I, so we can be comfortable in our own skin. The suits are a part of you. They’re not a part of me…and that’s all good. They’re justclothes, dude. Carrie looks great in a silk dress, she does. But she should have worn a bright orange t-shirt and purple overalls if it made her feel more like herself.” He tilts his head to one side, assessing Michael. “No?”
Michael sighs. He tosses Dash the remote. “See if you can figure this out. It’s making me feel stabby.” With that, he walks away, across the restaurant floor, and disappears into what I can only assume is the kitchen.
I can’t make heads nor tails of what’s going on between these two, but the interaction they just shared was weird.Michaelwas weird. Dash meets my gaze, and the two of us stare at each other. “What thehell?” I mutter.
My adorably English boyfriend shrugs. He looks down at the small, sleek black remote and frowns at it. “I’m not sure,” he says absently. “I think it might be for…the heating system?”
I’m about to slap his arm very hard and exclaim that I was not talking about the stupid remote, when the door behind Dash opens, allowing a blast of bitterly cold wind to rip through the restaurant. My heart seizes, expecting Michael’s boss and his girlfriend, but then a slender woman with glossy dark brown hair, styled very beautifully into a braided knot at the base of her neck, tentatively steps into the foyer. She wears a long, fashionable tan trench coat and glossy black pumps, the dress beneath the coat black and classically elegant. She turns wide, uncertain eyes on me. They’re liquid brown and warm, despite the hard edge I see in them. Her gaze skims over Dash and me, scanning behind us, as though anxiously searching for someone in particular.
