Page 19 of Two for Roughing

“Who told you that?”

Damir’s agent, the Firecrackers’ PR person before Brianna, his father when Damir complained about it in Juniors. “A lot of people.”

“Well, they sound dumb. We good?”

Damir nodded because how else was he supposed to respond?

Ketchup finished eating in blithe ignorance. He then put his plate on the counter above the dishwasher because every time he tried to put it in, Damir told him he was doing it wrong. He picked up his headset, turned off the mute function, and ambled to his room, already talking to Geo about whether the sorcerer’s skull might be in the dungeon.

Damir stared down at his phone.

The dark display stared back at him, unrelenting.

With a sigh, he opened up Instagram. They flew out to San Francisco tomorrow; he had to address this now.

ddenisov88: did you say all that stuff so I’d fuck you again?

The response came gratifyingly quickly.

howza68: wtf no

ddenisov88: why then?

howza68: it was the right thing to do? Sorry, did I fuck up or say something insensitive?

Damir had watched the clip of Howard, frowning fiercely with all the gravitas a cherub-faced twenty-year-old was capable of. He hadn’t said much, nor anything specific about Islam or how Damir practiced it. But having someone—anyone—talk about the kinds of comments he got on social media on the regular made Damir clench up in fear. The reporters would start asking him about it next, and then what would he say?

ddenisov88: no. I just don’t get why you would say anything

howza68: ?? bc I’m not a dick

Damir studied the message. It didn’t explain anything.

His phone buzzed with an incoming Instagram video call.

Ugh.

Who did that?

Kilian Howard, apparently.

He jabbed the accept button. “What?”

“Hi. So, seriously, I didn’t mean to step on your toes or anything.” Did the video call make his eyes look bluer than they were? How was that even possible? His face took up the whole frame, his curls falling across his forehead and his high cheekbones standing out in the shitty lighting of what must be his living room based on the couch cushions behind his head.

Damir scowled. “You didn’t.”

“Uh-huh, very believable. Try not looking like you’re about to stab someone with a skate blade when you pretend something isn’t bothering you.”

“I’m not lying, and I don’t look like I’m…whatever. I’m not lying.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you have prime murder face.”

“Screw you.”

“I wish.”

Damir laughed, startling himself in the quiet kitchen.