Veiled (Ada Palomino 1)

Actually it wasn’t a bad look and, as we left the room heading toward the Mercedes, I tried to take a selfie or ten. Lame, maybe, but I hadn’t posted to IG in a few days now and since I actually make money from my account for posting things like my outfits, then it’s something I can’t really neglect, demons or not.

“What are you doing?” Jay asks, leaning across the roof of the car and watching me curiously.

I chuck the duffel bag a few feet from me to get it out of the shot and try another angle, holding the iPhone far above my head. A lone scraggly-haired man in his pajamas exits his room, heading to the vending machine. He looks at me like I have a screw loose. Whatever. He probably takes dick pics so he should know all about getting the right angle.

“I’m trying to get a post to Instagram,” I explain to Jay, refusing to feel self-conscious. “I have a brand to uphold, you know.”

“Do you want me to take the picture?”

I pause, lowering the phone. “Would you mind?”

Normally I don’t like anyone else take the photo because they have no idea what flattering angles are. I’d given the phone to Dex once and he took a photo of my boobs. Perry tends to shoot from angles that give me double-chins and fat arms, something I always suspected was sisterly sabotage.

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says, “no pun intended.”

He comes around the hood of the car and takes the phone from my hands before motioning for me to turn around. “Stand in front of the doors. Look off to the left.”

Huh? Direction. I like this.

I do as he says while he lines up the shot. Now the man by the vending machine is cracking open a Pepsi and watching the parking lot photo shoot. I give him a wink and go back to posing.

“Think I got it,” Jay says when he’s done, handing the phone back to me. “I’ll take more if you want.”

I quickly flip through the photos. I don’t know how the fuck he managed to make this god forsaken place look like an editorial shoot for Vogue, but he has. The dull color of the Mercedes makes the dark green forest on the other side of the highway pop, the filtered sunlight making all the details crisp.

And I look fucking amazing, wet hair, no makeup and all.

I stare up at him in awe. “How did you do this? Are you a part-time photographer along with being a huge Led Zeppelin fan?”

“I said so at dinner last night. I’m a graphic artist. I know what looks good.”

I frown. “But I thought . . .”

“We should get going,” he says and I catch a smirk on his face before he heads to the driver’s seat.

Hmmm. Like I said before. Full of surprises.

Luckily the drive to the coast is only an hour, a peaceful winding journey through thick forests with the occasional clear-cutting and deep streams that race the road. Only it’s not so peaceful because my head wants to focus on the dream, as fragmented as it is, and revel in the afterglow. It reminds me when I was dreaming about Jay before, how I would always wake up happy, with a full heart.

I stare at him, wondering. His large hands wrap around the steering wheel, wayfarers covering his eyes. Not that I would be able to read much from him anyway.

“You were in my dream last night,” I blurt out.

“Was I?”

“Were you?”

He glances at me briefly. “Not sure what you’re getting at.”

“You have a history of showing up in my dreams. I’m wondering if this is something you did, rather than something my subconscious did.”

“What was the dream about?” he asks.

I clear my throat. “You tell me.”

He sighs. “Ada, what was it?”

I don’t want to. I want to see if he knows.

“Or are you embarrassed?” he goes on.

“I’m not embarrassed,” I say quickly. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

He grins cockily, eyes on the road. “Oh did I?”

“Yeah. You.”

“I bet you kissed me back.”

I clamp my mouth shut for a moment. “The details are fuzzy.”

“Convenient.”

I decide not to push it further. He has this uncanny way of twisting things around and I don’t want to go there, especially after last night when every nerve in my body was begging me to go exactly there.

Please let us have two separate beds tonight, I think.

When we reach the coast, the highway forking left and right, we turn to the right.

“I thought we were going to Cannon Beach,” I say.

“Checked the hotels this morning,” he says. “All booked up. Peak season, you know. Managed to snag a room in Seaside instead. Right on the beach, with a balcony.” He glances at me. “And yes, double beds.”

“Good,” I tell him, rather spitefully.