Which, I guess, now that I think about it, is weird. Since it’s obvious no men live here with her.
“Lost and found,” she says.
Also makes sense.
“I think someone left a hoodie last week. I could go check for you.”
AJ nods. “OK.” But his suspicion lingers.
Yvette either pretends not to notice or she gives no fucks. Because she unwraps my arms from around her and stands up. AJ steps aside, granting her access to the rain shower, and she steps under to rinse herself off one final time.
I just sit there, watching her, then notice AJ is watching me.
“What?” I say.
He shakes his head.
But I know what that shake means. It means, We gotta talk about something, but not in front of her.
“OK,” I say, reaching up with a hand.
He takes it, pulls me to my feet, and then Yvette opens the shower door, steps out grabbing a towel off a rack, and says, “I’ll get you towels. One second.”
We watch her disappear into the bedroom, tucking the towel up under her arms and around her breasts.
“What?” I ask again.
“Hold on,” he says, eyes locked on the doorway.
Yvette reappears, smiling—looking like a blonde goddess, if I’m being honest—and holds out the towels.
AJ and I take them at the same time, quickly dry ourselves off, then wrap the towels around our waists.
By the time we step back in the bedroom, Yvette is already pulling on a pair of pale yellow leggings. She’s wearing a long, white shirt with long, soft ruffles on the sleeve cuffs at her wrist.
Like the outfit she was wearing earlier today—specifically the shirt that AJ ripped open—it’s very feminine. Almost Victorian. Though that shirt earlier made her look more like a Renaissance princess than a vision in vintage lace.
Which is what she looks like now.
God, something is wrong with me. I don’t think I’ve ever compared a woman to either of those things in my entire like.
“I’ll be right back,” Yvette says. Then she smiles. “The lost and found box is just down in a room behind the bar.”
AJ says nothing. Just stares at her. So I say, “Sure. I’ll go back to my duties in the kitchen.”
Because I just remembered that’s what I was doing before all this sex started up again.
“Oh, I guess I can open the kitchen one more time. I’ll make us something.”
“Cool,” I say. Because AJ is still silent.
She manages one more smile, then disappears.
I wait for the tell-tale sound of an apartment door opening and closing, then turn to AJ and say, “What’s going on?”
He runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up in a very sexy way. Which almost makes me laugh. Because what the fuck is wrong with me?
“So…” he starts. “You know how I went out back to turn the generator on?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. Jesus. Was that just an hour or two ago? Feels like a lifetime. “Thanks for doing that.”
He holds up a finger, like he’s about to start ticking things off. “One. That is some fucking building she’s got out there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, there’s two cars, a car lift. You know the kind you see at a mechanic’s shop? That kind. A whole fucking gym filled with equipment. And not equipment someone like Yvette would use, either. It’s definitely a man’s gym. I almost started doing kicks on the bag, that’s how hot that gym made me.”
I laugh at this. I can’t help it.
“Two,” he says, holding up another finger. “That generator is no joke. It’s a nice fucking setup.”
I shrug. “It lives in the middle of nowhere, twelve thousand feet up in the sky. Kinda typical, I think.”
“Three,” he says, holding up one more finger. “The snowcat and the tractor?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Forgot about that. OK. So what are you saying? A guy lives out there?”
He shakes his head. “No one’s living out there, dude. The heat wasn’t on.”
“So what are you going on about?”
“There was a guy living here, Logan.”
“When?”
“How should I fucking know? I saw the same as you these past two weeks. No dudes. But never mind that, I have one more point to make.”
“OK.”
He holds up a fourth finger. “She was on the terrace? In her underwear?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“She dropped that bottle of pills in the snow. Fentanyl. You know what that is?”
“Fentanyl,” I say. “That’s painkillers, right?”
“Not just any painkiller. It’s end-of-life kind of painkiller. I know because my mom was on that shit when she was dying of cancer.”
“So she’s sick?”
AJ shrugs. “Or the guy who really owns this bar was, and he died.”
I think about this for a second. Kinda makes sense. We never could figure out how Yvette—or Glori, since that’s her real name—ended up with such a sweet deal when she left Damon with absolutely nothing.
“Why are we here?” AJ asks.
“To kill her,” I say.