Fourteen

This has to be a joke.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" I blurt out.

My words taste acidic. I definitely took one too many shots back at my condo and I'm toeing the line between drunk-enough-to-dance-with-my-hands-over-my-head-like-a-millennial and belligerent-enough-to-rant-about-why-billionaires-shouldn't-exist. Either way, Lander's in for something tonight. I'm not sure what…but something.

Essie whirls around, a red cocktail straw pinched between lips painted red to match. Her eyebrows shoot up and she blinks quickly, fanning her long, individually-glued eyelashes. "Oh my god. He should sue whoever took his headshot on Cavendish Waits' website because they did not do him justice."

I'm not surprised to learn Essie has already done a full internet-comb for Lander. When I told her about my last twenty minutes, her protective nature went into overdrive. She likely has a full dossier somewhere, complete with his social security number and tax returns. If she weren't so busy finishing her degree at Georgetown and camming, she could probably uncover the identity of the Zodiac Killer.

"And he's not alone," Cora remarks. "Far from it. Holy shit."

On Lander's right, there's a massive guy built like a Viking, but polished like a royal. His megawatt smile hosts the pearliest teeth I've ever seen on someone who isn't on Crest's payroll, and there's a mischievous glimmer in his brown eyes like he knows this encounter is going to amuse him.

On Lander's left, there's a moody looking guy with dark brown hair and cheekbones like a supermodel. He's dressed like he wrapped a long day on the Hill, and if he doesn't work on the Hill, he should. In the eight years I've lived in this country, I've learned that political parties don't agree on much, but they'd probably agree that this guy is fine as fuck. Hello, partisan bridge.

But still, neither of these guys holds a candle to Lander, who stops in front of us with his wingmen in tow and says, "Hey, Valeria. Nice running into you."

"Are you following me?" I question, not bothering with pretense. "You could have saved yourself the cover charge and lurked in the bushes outside the Halcyon if you really wanted to stalk me tonight."

Immediately, the moody one's pale green eyes rise from his phone and settle on me. "I like her," he declares.

Annoyed, Lander shoots his friend an admonishing look before saying, "This is Everett Logan. He delights in other people's misfortune."

"There's a word for that," Everett intones flatly, not denying what Lander said. "It's German. Sch—"

"Schadenfreude," Cora fills in before Everett can finish.

The moody one doesn't look so moody anymore. Both of his eyebrows float upwards, and he slides his phone into the pocket of his expensive slacks. "Yeah," he confirms. "Schadenfreude." Then, his green eyes languidly peruse Cora, starting with her long black hair and skimming along her skin, which she's showing in full force tonight. He holds out his hand. "Everett Logan, like he said."

"Cora Flores," she answers, taking Everett's extended hand.

"I thought your name was Lilith," the preppy Viking chimes in with a puzzled look on his face—and everyone freezes.

Well, apparently Lander isn't the only guy occupying the razor thin overlap in the Venn diagram of ‘monstrously rich and successful men' and ‘men who watch camgirls.'

My pulse has quickened. I'm not as prolific as Cora, so I rarely get approached in public, but anytime camming and the real world collide, I feel off kilter.

"Wow, Dalton," Lander mutters, shaking his head. He faces Cora. "I'm sorry about him. He's—"

Cora shrugs because, unlike me, she loves when camming and the real world collide. "No worries. I'm not hiding anything. Lilith Lace is an alias." She winks at the big one, Dalton. "I take it you know my work."

Dalton's lips separate, but no words come out. At the same time, movement makes me glance down. Everett has pulled his hand out of Cora's and is clenching it in a fist. Interesting.

"Oh, is this awkward?" Cora goes on, her eyes shifting from Dalton's face to Everett's hand. "Shouldn't be. I don't care if you guys have watched me."

Wordlessly, Everett glares at his two friends before he faces Cora. "Actually, I've never watched you." His tone runs an undercurrent of a sneer.

"You should," I chime in, weaving my arm around Cora's waist and giving her an affectionate squeeze. "Cora's so talented and well known, she gets recognized sometimes." I raise my chin at Dalton. "Which shouldn't surprise you, seeing as Dalton here knew her."

"Are you a fan?" Cora asks, facing Dalton once more and smiling sweetly, even though she's anything but sweet.

If Dalton realizes Cora's screwing with him, he doesn't let it show. "Nah, I know you from Emerald's streams," he replies before tilting his head to look past Lander at Essie. "Hey there," he greets, giving her the most obvious smolder I've ever seen in my life.

"Wait," Lander interjects, finally shedding his trademark unflappable demeanor. He faces his friend, brow furrowed. "Dalton, do you…"

Dalton shrugs his big shoulders. "I don't tell you everything."

"Except you do," Everett counters. "Minutes ago, you literally told us how many times you listened to your Janet Jackson playlist at the gym this month. Eight, you said."

Dalton shrugs again before he focuses his attention back on Essie. "I'm Dalton Cavendish. Big fan. What's your real name?"

I'm expecting Essie to ignore him because she never discusses camming with anyone other than Cora and me. She plans to stop once she has a degree and even performs in a mask to keep her identity a secret. But to my surprise, she reaches right past Lander to shake Dalton's hand. "Essie Romero."

Dalton dwarfs Essie's hand with his much larger one. "Essie. That's pretty. I've never met anyone named Essie before."

"I've never met anyone named Dalton before," she answers, gaping up at him, her expression just short of wonder. "I've also never met a guy so…huge before."

"You're teeny," he notes, clamping down on his lower lip before smiling with full, perfect teeth. "I probably look bigger to you."

Essie beams, a matching smile spreading across her face. Then she looks over at me, catches my admonishing scowl, and quickly snatches her hand back from Dalton's.

"Sorry," she mouths at me.

She's not though. I can already tell where this is going.

"Can we buy you a round?" Lander offers, looking between Cora, Essie, and me. "Maybe my two best friends can prove they're actual functioning human beings."

"We're good on drinks," Essie replies before she reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze—the unspoken girl-code for I'm so sorry I almost bailed on you for this sequoia of a man, which is a hard thing to pass on because I'm a total size queen. Plus, Essie doesn't drink, despite what her subscribers may think.

"Are you sure?" Dalton asks, gesturing over his shoulder, brow furrowed. He looks like a disappointed puppy waiting for a treat.

"I'm sure," Essie confirms, squeezing my hand a little too hard. Again, total size queen.

When her grip reaches Paul Bunyan levels, my resolve breaks. She clearly wants this guy—or his (presumably) big ol' dick, and I love her too much to cockblock. Besides, when it comes down to it, she won't be the one to ward off Lander anyway.

Nope. That would be Cora Flores.

"Essie, you should go," I encourage, nudging her. "Have fun with Dalton."

"It's girl's night," she protests emptily—but she's already releasing my hand.

"Go," I urge. "I'll stay with Cora."

Essie and Dalton take off immediately, faster than I've ever seen two people move outside of an Olympic speed-skating race, leaving Cora and me with Lander and Everett…and all the Schadenfreude in the District of Columbia.

Annoyed, I face Lander. "Down one friend. Thanks. Do you seriously have it so bad that you had to ruin my night out?"

"I do," he confirms unflinchingly. "Can you blame me? Look at you. You look so fucking good tonight."

Every butterfly in the continental United States could migrate into this bar right now, and they still would have nothing on the flutters in my stomach. I take a long drink of my whiskey sour, trying to hide the involuntary smile on my face. I know I'm failing miserably because Lander is sporting this annoying-as-fuck, triumphant grin. It looks amazing on him.

Asshole.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks, bending to speak into my ear. "Maybe we can talk."

Pulling away, I shake my head. "Cora and I are going to dance."

"Dance with me."

"No shot."

Dejected, Lander straightens his back before he nudges Everett with his elbow.

"Ow, what?" Everett snaps, rubbing his ribs with his palm and glaring at Lander.

"Fucking Colorado, man," Lander hisses, and a hundred unspoken words flash in the look he shoots back.

Whatever Colorado means makes Everett clench his jaw before he plasters on a convincing smile and faces Cora. "Actually, I'd love to buy you a drink and talk."

"Hm, about what?" Cora replies, simpering. She could eat this guy for breakfast and still have an appetite for a pancake brunch with bottomless mimosas.

"About…" Everett trails off and rolls his eyes. "About your job," he finally fills in, although he's clearly not interested in camming. In fact, something about the way he says "job" sounds like it's physically painful for him.

Cora's too smart to miss it. "Oh, you mean camming?" She emphasizes the word. She says it loudly—enough for the bartender a few feet away to draw his head back in surprise. "Talking doesn't do it justice. You should watch me, Everett. I'm doing a stream next Thursday with Valeria and Essie. Starts at eight."

"Can't," he answers, no hesitation. "I've got plans."

"Thursday at eight?" Lander cuts in. "Do you have a date or something?"

Everett falters, lips separated. He seems to consider his words, maybe their implication, before he lets his shoulders fall. "Actually, the Perseids are supposed to peak, so I'm driving to Shenandoah to…" He trails off again and looks at the three of us one by one. "People hate it when I talk about this. I'm killing the vibe, aren't I?"

"The vibe was dead on arrival," I mutter to Cora, but she doesn't hear me. She's too busy taking a step closer to Everett, head canted to the side.

"What are the Perseids?" she asks.

"A meteor shower," Everett explains, the flatness absent from his response for the first time tonight. "They're nearly a thousand years old and are only visible once a year."

"Everett's been obsessed with them since we were kids," Lander tells me, keeping his eyes on Everett and Cora.

The way Cora is looking at Everett is…well, I've genuinely never seen her look at anyone like this before—not even her ex. Cora is smarter than everyone, plain and simple. It's rare anyone can tell her something she doesn't know. But for once, she's staring at someone like she's genuinely interested in what they have to say.

Of all people, it had to be Lander's wingman.

"And you leave the city to see them?" she continues, taking another step closer to Everett.

He nods. "They're clearest in areas with low light pollution, and I want to get good pictures. Otherwise, sure, I would consider watching your…stream—is that right?"

"Stream, yeah," she confirms absently. "You're a photographer?"

At that exact moment, I realize Lander has won. He came here to annihilate my fortress's defenses and he did so spectacularly. His banner men are practically scaling my castle walls at this point.

"Recreationally," Everett answers. "I'm a lawyer and a policy analyst at the Environmental Protection Agency, but I do nature photography as a hobby. You're probably not interested, but I have some great shots from last year."

Slowly, Cora looks over at me, the guilt plain on her face. She doesn't have to say a word for me to understand what's happening here: She needs a new photographer, and one literally just stumbled into her sights.

And I'll admit it: He's distressingly hot.

I wave my hand. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? Because I'll stay right here…"

"Go. I have far too many topless photos of you on my memory cards."

She squeezes my hand—the unspoken girl-code for thanks for taking one for the team and giving me a chance to convince this arrogant little tree hugger to take pictures of my nipple piercings. Then she faces Everett and says, "Buy me a drink. I'd love to see your pictures."

He nods and motions for Cora to lead, but before he leaves, he locks eyes with Lander and hisses, "We're square, Dawson."

"Agreed," Lander replies before saluting him.

And then it's just us. Lander and me. We went from never saying a word to each other for a year to being alone together for the fourth time in a week. To say the man works hard is an understatement; his brain should be studied and replicated.

"You're diabolical," I concede, watching Cora and Everett disappear into the crowd on the other side of the bar.

"I have no clue what you're talking about," Lander replies, giving me an air of fake obliviousness that's kind of adorable. He bobs his chin at the bartender. "I'll take whatever sour you have on tap, and she'll take another whiskey sour."

Apparently, we're having drinks. Great.

"Where'd you find those two?" I ask when Lander hands me a fresh cocktail.

"You mean the two guys tailor-made to separate you from your friends?"

"Yes, the two hotties who have no business being anyone's wingmen."

My attempt to neg him doesn't work—not by a long shot. Lander smirks. "Yeah, it's a risk. They're fucking handsome. They're also my brothers, not by blood, but in every other sense of the word." He sips his beer. "I'm an only child."

"Same."

My response makes Lander raise an eyebrow. "Well, look at that, Valeria. Apparently, we have something in common."

I scoff. "Are your parents absolute shitheads too?"

"Nah, they're dead."

I choke on my drink. Like literally. As in I actually start coughing whiskey and lemon.

"Breathe," he orders, rubbing my back.

When I recover, I honestly wish I had passed out. This conversation would be so much less awkward if I had. "Lander, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"Don't be sorry. It's not like you killed them."

Guiltily, my eyes run over him. He seems so…calm about it.

"I was fourteen," he explains without prompting. "My father had a heart attack and my mother didn't take it well."

"Shit," is the only thing I can say.

"After it happened, Dalton's parents got custody of me." He motions over his shoulder. "And Dalton's the shit. Everett too. I wouldn't hang out with these guys or bring them around your friends if I didn't think they were good guys."

I look across the bar at Essie, perched on a stool and still craning her neck to make eye contact with Dalton. He's standing next to her, utterly transfixed. A few feet away, Cora and Everett are crowded together, peering at Everett's phone. The light from the screen illuminates their faces, and I hate to admit they look good together.

"So, you did bring those two as wingmen," I comment, turning back to Lander. "You're confessing."

"I never tried to hide it. I want you. I'll strategize, I'll scheme—whatever it takes. I don't care if I have to play dirty to get you, Valeria."

The way he says dirty is beyond the essence of the word itself.

"Clearly. So, when this plan fails—and it will fail—what's your next move?"

"It's going pretty well so far," he counters while pointedly glancing at the empty spaces on either side of me where my friends once stood.

"They'll be back. Any minute now, your friends are going to screw this up."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh, Lander. You know how I feel about lawyers," I remind him, cocking my head in Everett's direction. "And what does Dalton do?"

"Investment banker."

"You're kidding," I exclaim, just short of revolted. "You brought Essie an i-banker?"

"What's wrong with i-bankers? I mean, beyond the obvious problem of them working constantly, snorting too much coke, and living solely for the purpose of making money for people who already have too much money?" he deadpans.

"They're like lawyers," I explain, working hard to ignore his joke. It wasn't hilarious, but worthy of at least a smile—which I will not give him. "Lawyers, i-bankers, and policy wonks don't date camgirls. It never works."

"I doubt that's true. Bet it works out all the time."

"Nope. Career men aren't going to risk it all. They want women who they can bring to office parties. Women who will raise their kids while they pull all-nighters. They don't want women who bring up Safe Search when you google them."

Lander's face twists into a frown. "You don't think I would bring you to an office party? Valeria, if you were with me, I'd be the first person at every damn party. And if not for the prospect of taking you home and banging your brains out, I'd be the last one to leave too." His eyes run over me before he lifts an eyebrow. "Damn. Now I'm thinking of joining a committee at work and planning a party this week so I can show up with you on my arm."

…Shit, he's good. "Please stop."

"I don't think I can." He leans in, pausing a mere two inches short of kissing me. "Come on. Break your rule. Let me show you how much this lawyer doesn't give a flying fuck about how you make your money."

"I'm not budging," I insist, wishing my resolve matched my words. I so want to budge. Lander is eyeing me like it's December twenty-fourth and he just peeled back the paper flap on the biggest treat in his advent calendar. "You can give me all the pretty words you want, but you'd be mortified if anyone found out you were with a camgirl."

"Never. I love what you do. I think it's absurdly sexy, Valeria."

"You're just saying that."

He shakes his head, keeping eye contact with me. "I'm really not."

"You'll never make partner," I threaten, practically channeling my father. "You'll be stuck as a senior associate, putting in the hours but never getting the rewards. The higher-ups will whisper about you. They'll talk about what a great partner you could have been, if only you hadn't fucked a pussy thousands of people have seen. Thousands, Lander."

His desirous expression doesn't waver. "You have no clue how good I am at my job. I'll make partner. Easily. I bet I could make partner even if I had a framed picture of you naked and using that glittery pink dildo of yours. I could put it on my desk right next to my coffee and the cup where I keep all my pens."

My heart is racing.

The music is pounding.

Lander is smiling.

The thing about Lander is he usually looks so intimidating, and not just because he's so bafflingly beautiful. Really, it's because he seldom smiles, if ever. I've studied him enough times to know his face has a perpetual stoicism, an innate stoniness that rarely leaves. Right now, however, he's smiling at me. And when he smiles, he looks ethereal. The bar is sparsely lit and vibey, but he makes everything in our vicinity seem electric, like there's a hazy, neon glow filling the space.

He's gorgeous…

…Shit. I'm totally going to give in to this guy.

At precisely that moment, when I'm realizing my willpower has a rapidly approaching expiration date, the song changes and incites cheers from the other end of the club. We both look over, and crowd is forming from people surging onto the dancefloor.

Lander trains his eyes upwards, listening to the song playing before he lets out a laugh. "Oh shit. I haven't danced to this song in years. You remember this one?"

The song in question is just a step above strip club music, the kind of soulless, synthetic ear worm that makes people want to air hump. I absolutely love it, but I don't admit it to Lander. I shrug instead.

"Come on. You know this one. Admit you know it." He shifts his body, moving to the beat and mouthing the words. I have no clue how he does it, but he looks ridiculously sexy.

Ugh, I called it—the man is a good dancer. I hate being right sometimes.

He places his hand on my side. Nothing lascivious, mostly playful. He presses lightly, urging me to move with him.

"Come on," he encourages again. Those hips of his are lethal weapons.

"Fine," I acquiesce. "I might have grinded on Harrison Baker to this song at spring formal when I was fifteen."

"Shit," he exclaims before wetting his lower lip with his tongue. That simple action makes my pulse quicken, and all of a sudden, the moment has gotten heavy. Before I know it, he's grabbing my hand. "I need to know exactly what that looked like."

We're heading to the middle of the dancefloor, enveloped by moving bodies. The swell of limbs and body heat surrounds us, and Lander doesn't mess around with coyness. When we're in the thick of it, he presses his hand against the small of my back, keeping me close. Lander can really move—and I can too.

In fact, we dance so well together, the surprise is patent on both our faces. Grinding, swaying, sweating—it happens quickly. His hands end up on the backs of my bare thighs, clutching me, and damn it I can't believe I let myself get this tipsy knowing Lander Dawson and his fine ass were loose in the District tonight.

Propriety and common sense? Those bitches are long gone. I swivel and back into him now, pressing my ass against his front.

He's hard.

I'm probably wet.

And sure enough, his body moves like pure and unbridled sex—the kind you have when you're one drink short of sloppy and want to be the sluttiest one in the friend group that night.

His hands are everywhere. Big palms and daring fingers caress me, shifting my skimpy dress, finding more bare skin.

I'm devolving fast. If I want any shot at keeping my rule—and my panties—I should back off. Way off. I should strongly consider moving back to Mexico because as long as this man and I are in the same country, this might keep happening.

But for now, I stay where I am, letting Lander unravel me.

Softly, his tongue grazes my neck, peppering my skin with goosebumps. His lips press against the spot where his tongue touches me, and I don't stop him. I arch into the kiss, striving to remember why I shouldn't be doing this—and failing.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice scratchy and hot like my clothes. It's sensory overload—and if I had to choose…I'd keep the voice and ditch the clothes. "You're so fucking beautiful."

It's not the first time Lander has called me beautiful. It's not even the first time tonight. So naturally, I'm prepared to dismiss the compliment. After all, men will dole out any number of flattering comments when they want to get a girl naked. But when I whirl around, all I see is conviction. His blue eyes are crinkled at the corners, complementing the smile on his face. He's fixated on me.

"Give this a shot," he implores, placing one of his hands flat against my stomach.

I still can't get over how unafraid he is to touch me. No timidity, no reservations. He does it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it is. It certainly feels that way.

"We'd regret it," I respond, straining to speak over the music.

"I wouldn't."

"I would."

"I won't let you."

"You barely know me."

Lander maneuvers me, pressing my body against his, proving me wrong: He's not hard, he's fucking steel. Boldly, he cups my ass—full palms, no shame. "I know you're fighting this," he goes on.

"Am not."

"You are. You can't stop staring at my mouth."

It's a wicked fucking thing, and I narrow my eyes. "What else should I stare at? It's right there on your face. Central to it."

His mien is the epitome of smugness. "You think of me when you come, Valeria."

"Do not." I do. "You're delusional." He's not.

"Banter is cute, but don't bother, baby," he replies, his lips dangerously close to mine now. "Stop punishing yourself. Date a lawyer. At the very least, fuck one. It's transcendent." He winks, and even though that wink should be obnoxious, it's painfully attractive.

"I won't."

"I'm fun as hell. You know it. I'll satisfy you however you want, whenever you want."

"Pass."

"Too much too fast? I can pace." He pulls back. "Let's make out."

I hate this.

I hate how I'm smiling too. I hate how obscenely close our bodies are. I hate how his hands feel so good on my ass. I hate how much I can't lie and pretend I hate him.

…I love this.

"Stop," I urge, but my voice refuses to come out resolute like I intended. "I'm not kissing you."

"You should. I'm exceptional. If anything, do yourself a favor."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, this is for my sake? You're such a lawyer. So fucking slick."

Lander shakes his head. "This isn't lip service. I'm serious. I'd kiss you into a trance." He bows to drag his lips along my jawline before he says, "Try me. If I fail, I'll move out of the Halcyon. Because as long as we're neighbors, we both know how this ends: with us fucking, or with us being fucking miserable."

"You're that confident in your kissing abili—"

"Yes." His expression isn't playful; it's completely serious. His eyes go to my mouth and stay there, scoping their target like an archer. I can practically feel the assurance emanating off him.

Oh please. Nobody kisses that well.

"Fine," I declare, stopping myself from telling him to text his realtor. "Prove it."

Less than a minute later, he does.

I'm pressed against a wall in Smoke and Shadow's back hallway, tucked around the corner from the bathrooms. With one hand braced against the bricks, Lander looms over me. His lips are running the show.

He wasn't exaggerating; he's exceptional. It's our third time kissing, but for once, he's not in a rush. The result: I'm in his arms, falling apart at the seams.

His tongue licks into my mouth, bold and proprietary, like he's been kissing me for years. I let him in. I press my tongue against his, deepening the kiss, giving him some semblance of a green light. Being Lander, he takes it.

From my mouth, he ventures lower. He drags his lips over my collarbone before running his tongue up the entire column of my neck, and oh my motherfucking lord, the man is licking me like I'm a paleta. My skin is tingling, I'm aching for more, and yet he continues this languid, borderline lewd seduction. It's the most inexplicably erotic thing I've ever experienced—and I'm a literal sex worker.

He bows low, putting himself at eye level. "Let's go home together," he whispers, and the words engulf me like a thick, sweet haze—perfumy and seductive.

"Not a chance," I reply, speaking at odds with my body and libido.

Lander doesn't react. It's like he's too busy staring at my lips to hear the rejection. "God, I love when they're shiny like that," he mutters, not drawing his gaze away. "Did you know you always lick your lips before you come? It's the signal for me to let myself go. I love it when we come together. You'll learn to love it too. It can be our thing, baby."

Screw it. Yes. Yes to that. Yes to coming together, and doing it often, and—

"Valeria," Cora exclaims, appearing next to Lander and me.

I don't bother trying to hide what we were doing. Cora simply can't be scandalized. But I also know her better than anyone, and I can tell by her cadence that she's pissed—and not with me.

"What's wrong?" I demand, moving out of Lander's arms to go to Cora. The sudden separation is like stumbling out of a sex fog. I don't look at him, but I know he sees me wipe my lips with the back of my hand. I bet he hates it. Good. That's what he gets for seducing me again. The man is a warlock. I don't know how I always seem to end up kissing him, but it's sorcery.

Cora's cheeks are pink and her chest heaves with an arduous breath. Instead of answering me, she faces Lander and points a single almond-shaped, black fingernail at his chest. "Your friend Everett is a prick to end all pricks."

"He can be," Lander replies, eyebrow elevated, but looking largely unsurprised. "What did he do this time?"

"I want to leave," she declares, ignoring Lander and facing me. Her expression is pointed.

"Done. You grab Essie and I'll call the Uber. Meet you out front," I answer, giving her a quick hug. When she's gone, I train my attention on Lander while adjusting my dress. I want to wipe the smug smile off his face. He's the one who brought Everett around and foisted him on Cora. He's as responsible for Cora's anger as his asswipe of a friend.

Maybe I'm responsible too.

Now that I'm not thinking with my tits, clarity washes over me. I saw this coming, and yet I still let a pretty face and a few charming lines derail my convictions.

"Hey, I didn't know—" Lander begins.

"You did," I interject, holding up my hand to quiet him. "You sneaky, underhanded bastard. ‘What did he do this time?' That's not a question you ask about a guy with a clean rap sheet."

Lander doesn't respond—a classic guilty-as-shit reaction.

"You told me Everett was a good guy," I go on. "You lied to me to sleep with me again? Surely I wasn't that good."

"You were," he mouths, his whisper nearly inaudible. "Valeria, I'm sorry. I don't know what Everett did, but I'll talk to him. He's a good guy—he really is. He's just obsessive about his c—"

Lander stops. I may be drunker than he is, but he's not on his game tonight. He was about to say "career."

In other words: He was going to prove my point—the point he tried to convince me wasn't a concern.

With a measured step, I close the gap between us only so I can say this directly to his face, staring right into his eyes, knowing he has nowhere else to look: "You and your friends need to stay the fuck away from us."

I turn on my heels without waiting for a response.