"Do I look old?"
I slurred it loud enough for the bar to turn.
The bartender laughed and slid a coaster in front of me like it was the most normal question in the world.
"You look lethal," he said. "Lethal is not old."
Three men at the high table snorted. One of them leaned over, teeth too white under the neon.
"She's cute," he said. "How old are you, sweetheart?"
"Twenty-five," I said, because math is negotiable at a bar.
"You sure?" he pressed. "You don't look—"
"Am I interrupting something?" The bartender's voice dropped. He put his palm on the bar and leaned in, all business and no nonsense. "You want to keep it fun, you drop the 'sweetheart.'"
The men blinked like they'd been slapped with an invoice.
"Your friend has taste," the bartender added to me, with an approving nod at my dress. "On the house, next round."
I raised my glass. "Cheers to taste," I said, because I owed myself small crowns.
My phone vibrated in my clutch. A notification from Clifford—two grey ticks, no message. I flipped the screen face-down like sealing an envelope.
"Are you here with someone?" the nearest man asked. He was trying to reclaim the night with charm that looked rehearsed.
"Nope. I'm my own damage tonight," I said.
The man laughed too loud. "Brave."
"Brave and expensive," I shot back. I let the glass slide around my fingers so the ring
