Silver Stilettos

20 | love me like you do

Reed remained silent as I told him that Dom had been trying to turn me against him. I chose my words with care, not giving away too much, but still letting Reed know that I was unequivocally on his side.

I mentioned nothing about Caroline and the plot to free her from the proverbial tower.

I watched his face as I spoke. It radiated sadness, but there was an undertone of anger as well - in the tick of his jaw, in the muscles of his mouth. Trying not to look at him too studiously, I broke my gaze before he figured out that I was studying him. The last thing I wanted was for Reed to realize I was reading his face in the way my dad undoubtedly analyzed a perp's.

"She thinks I'm lying to you," Reed said, releasing the words in a whoosh of disappointed oxygen. He shook his head and looked away, hiding his face from me. "I guess I can't blame her. I wouldn't believe me either."

I lowered my eyes to my still-full mug of Jim Beam whiskey. If, by his own admission, even Reed would find it hard to buy the story about the Albanian mafia, then why had I fallen for it? My chest tightened as I willed him to look back at me.

A second later, he did.

"She's acting out," he said decisively. "But she won't succeed in putting a wedge between us, will she, Mayuri?"

It didn't sound like the kind of question that needed a response so I settled for saying nothing, instead putting my other hand on top of his. Our three clasped hands, stacked one on top of the other, reminded me of an Oreo.

"Emily still has my car," I reminded him.

Another chorus of angry exhales. "She's a bitch."

I swallowed back my laugh. His screwed-up face, squinty eyes, and comic, anime eyebrows while he was dressed in pajamas reminded me of a little boy—maybe not the best way to envision my boyfriend—and I leaned forward, brushing his frown away with the palm of my hand.

"Can I stay here the night?" I asked.

He didn't hesitate. "Of course."

Leaving our mugs on the counter, we walked side by side to the stairs. They were wide enough for two abreast, and with our hands still linked, we reached the top. Reed put a finger to his lips, the universal gesture for shhh, and we crept past a row of closed doors.

He gestured for me to go ahead of him into his bedroom. I sat on the edge of his bed gingerly, trying not to make the mattress squeak. Reed shut his door in one slow, fluid arc, twisting the knob so the latch receded completely into the door before pushing the door flush against the door frame. I watched his wrist turn counter-clockwise, easing the latch back in place. There wasn't even a click.

"Something tells me you sneak in and out of your room a lot," I said, still speaking in a low voice. "You did that like a pro."

Alarm flashed across his face for a split second, but was quickly masked by a boyish smile of chagrin. "Yeah, it's"—he flicked off the light, again, without a sound—"just habit. She doesn't like me going out."

"Your mom?" I was so tired, I just wanted to sprawl back on his bed, still warm from his body. I forced my spine to stay upright.

Reed's blue eyes looked unsteady. "Yeah," he said after an elongated pause. "Her. My mom."

"Reed, I never deleted my blog," I blurted out.

His face flashed with an indeterminate something, but before he could lambast me for keeping a secret, I pushed forward with, "If your mom thought my blog was such a problem for her associates, don't you think that's something she would have been, like, I don't know, monitoring?"