"Wilder's here," someone shouted as the private-room music swallowed words.
"Keep the cup steady," Kali hissed behind me.
"Easy," I said, gripping the neon-pink paper cup like it contained something alive. My sketchbook was tucked under my arm. The VIP entry smelled like perfume and bad decisions.
"Who let the art kid into the Regent?" a man in a polo called out.
"You lost, princess?" another laughed. He reached toward my tray as if he could pluck the cup from me.
"Back up," I said, stepping sideways. My hand brushed a lacquered table and I nearly spilled everything.
"Hey," a deeper voice cut across the box. "She's with me tonight."
Three heads turned. The laughter died on one breath.
"You Wilder Cain?" the polo asked, trying to recover his swagger. "Since when do you pick team bus service?"
"Since you started acting like a clown," Wilder said. He wasn't standing; he was lounging, a camera slung around his neck, one elbow propped on the backrest. "Move."
The polo opened his mouth, closed it, and sat down like someone had turned off his volume. The other men shuffled away, embarrassed. One muttered, "Whatever, man."
Wilder's face relaxed when he saw me. "Don't spill that," he said.
"I won't," I answered. My voice sounded smaller inside the music, but he heard it.
A hand took the cup from me. His fingers brushed mine for the barest second. The contact was a sentence. It said
