Page 8 of The Fake Divination Offense
The guy makes a garbled noise of protest. “You little piece of—”
But he’s cut off in an aggravated squawk, and when I look, Thio’s counterspelled whatever the green glowing arcane lines were.
“Do we need to call an adventure party?” Seb asks me, but he’s scowling at the guy. “They can take care of him.”
Instead of showing any kind of fear at being potentially arrested, the guy laughs. A boisterous, screeching laugh, and with one last glower at Alexo, he huffs off into the crowd.
I charge after him when a small hand wraps around my forearm. It’s just as debilitating for my sense of awareness as that meditative goal state.
Everything else drops away, crashes and topples to rubble, until there’s just Alexo putting himself in front of me, gazing up with that awestruck wonder marred by confusion, like he’s not used to people defending him. It makes my chest squeeze, that this is surprising for him.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
It’s so quiet in here, the crowd eating thisup, and the music’s stopped now, too, but I watch his lips and feel those words dip off his tongue.
I really intend to sayyou’re welcome.Or something not quite so predatory, after all this shit.
But what comes is a runaway train of “Let me buy you a drink.”
It isn’t even a question.
I clear my throat and try again. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Alexo grins, and I am so, so fucked. He is some kind of siren, isn’t he? Or a pixie, tossing out charms on his every exhale.
But Seb and Thio aren’t affected, sharing a knowing smirk with me, then each other; and Marlow and Darian are behind them, looking concerned until Darian claps his hands loudly.
“All right, show’s over!” he shouts at the crowd. “Or—has it just begun?”
He dives on stage, whips his guitar around, and starts into the first chords of “Somebody to Love.” It earns a stifled applause, and the air of partying burbles back up as people peel away from gawking at me. At us.
Seb, Thio, and Marlow try to create something of a barrier between us and the crowd, a wall on our other side, but I still grimace, wondering how many of the pics people got had Alexo in them. I know what comes with my lot in life, but he sure as hell didn’t ask to get embroiled in a PR moment with a pro rawball athlete who’s atraitor to his god.
All that’s for later, though.
Because right now, Alexo’s brows scrunch with his smile. “You want to buy me a drink?”
“Just a drink. No expectations,” I clarify. “I’m Orok.” I hold out my hand.
He shakes it gently. His hand is doll-like against my thick fingers.
“Oh, I know who you are,” he says.
I fight back a wince, waiting for his reaction, but he’s a blank slate. So I guess, tentative, “You a rawball fan?”
“You could say that.” I get the feeling that’s all he’ll give me, and I worry he’s one of the people set against me until he grins.
He’s gonna play it coy, which is fine. Enticing, actually, and prickles race down the back of my neck, fizzle straight to the base of my gut when he bites his lower lip.
But that taunting smile dims. “I have to go, though.”
I keep my own smile up, hoping not to look too disheartened. Because it’s dumb that I feel upset—I don’t even know this guy. He’s just alluring and magical, and I can still smell him, fresh, bright apples. I want to know what he was thinking about when he was singing, what happened in his life that he wants to escape from.
Whether he’s had any luck with that.
Whether he can give me some tips.
I force myself to relax the muscles that’d tensed me forward.
