Song for the Dead (Ada Palomino 2)

He mumbles something into the mattress.

I slip off his black Vans, tossing them across the room, then I try to remove his leather jacket, one arm at a time.

“All right,” I say, folding his jacket on the back of the chair. “Are you okay like this, or do you want me to take off your pants too? Because I’d rather not.”

He mumbles something again, and then starts to move, pushing himself up until he’s rolled over, head back against the pillow, eyes closed.

His flannel shirt looks a little tight and uncomfortable from the way he’s resting, and I have a feeling he’s going to pop a button in the night. Which I’d be able to sew of course, but I don’t think I can handle any more ruined clothes tonight.

So I sit on the side of the bed beside him and start undoing the buttons of his shirt, revealing a white tee underneath. Well, at least I’m not trying to get him shirtless.

He stirs, moving his head, and opens his eyes to look at me while I’m on the third button.

He licks his lips. “What are you doing?” he whispers, brow raised comically.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I warn him. “You’d ruin the shirt if you slept in it.”

“I thought you hated my shirts.” He stares at me so expectantly and sincerely that I have to laugh.

“I don’t hate them,” I tell him, smiling as I continue to unbutton the rest of his shirt. “They’re very much you. And because they’re very much you, I don’t want them ruined. K?”

I feel his eyes on me and I don’t look up until I’ve undone the last button. When I do meet his gaze, he’s smiling lazily at me. He shouldn’t be such a cute drunk.

Then his expression turns serious, brooding even, and he reaches out with his hand and places it at my cheek. So big and warm, I feel small against it, and I suck in a breath, the whole room seeming to come to a standstill.

He holds his hand there, his eyes roaming across my face, and my gaze drops to his lips, and then I’m met with fear. Pure fear. Like, is he going to kiss me? Because that’s going to make things way too complicated to handle. I’m not ready for that.

Especially if I end up liking it.

I gulp uneasily, my pulse racing against my palm, my skin feeling hot.

Oh no.

Then he smiles again, a sweet smile, gazing up at me.

“You’re a good egg, Ada,” he says.

Then he closes his eyes.

His hand drops away.

And he passes right out.

I stare at him for a few moments, making sure he’s breathing and alive, before I go back to worrying about my own breathing. It feels like I can’t get enough air, like my heart is beating too fast, like the world is in my stomach and it’s tilting off its axis.

I slowly get off the bed, snatch the wine off the dresser, and drink the rest of it right out of the bottle.

Good-egg Ada, I tell myself. That should be my new nickname.

I sigh and take a sip of my coffee, wrapping my jacket closer around me as the waves pound the shore, sea spray floating in the air.

It’s the next morning, just after nine, and I’ve come for a walk on the beach, the last taste of my home state until we cross over into California today. I got up just after dawn, not feeling too great because of the wine, but definitely better than Big Red in the bed next to me.

He was snoring like a banshee all night long, which had me jamming several sets of ear plugs into my ears, and when I tried to wake him up this morning, he wasn’t even budging.

So I had a shower and got dressed, packed, and came out to the beach to try and clear my head. It’s pretty out here, reminding me of my Uncle Al’s property, a long expanse of sand, some rock formations off the shore, a cold and violent surf. I stand there for a long time, feeling the ebb and flow of the waves take some of the confusion and negativity away from me until I feel my soul has been cleared a little.

Then I head back along the little boardwalk that snakes between dunes and tall grass, passing other guests with coffee walking their dogs, giving them polite smiles.

Funny thing is, while normally I wouldn’t give these people a second thought, now that Max told me hybrid demons are everywhere, I’m giving everyone an extra look. I assume if there was one around me, my senses would come to attention, like it did in the restaurant, but what if that’s not the case? What if they can really read my thoughts like Max predicts? They could get me before I could get them. Sure, I can put up walls, but it’s draining to have to do it all the time and what if they can see right through them?