Page 31 of Graves

I sit on the empty stool and regard her for a second. As always, she embodies an African goddess. As a dancer, she has this graceful posture and a long, elegant neck. She loves doing her eyes in gold, which makes her stunning dark skin look regal. “You got your hair done,” I notice. “How long?”

Nahla rolls her eyes. “Almost six hours!” She gently touches her fresh braids.

“Looks good.”

“Thanks.” She narrows her eyes and leans in. “Where did you get the tickets? You don’t even listen to punk rock.”

Luckily, the waitress comes over. Nahla’s drinking a beer, so I order the same.

“I got them firsthand.”

“What does that mean?”

I purse my lips, wondering how to explain it.

Fuck it.

“Aran Graves is my new roommate.”

Nahla freezes. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit.”

“Really?” She shakes her head in wonder. “Knowing you, I’d have thought you’d move into a hotel rather than stay there.”

“Hm…” She has a point. I can’t even explain to myself why I haven’t left yet. According to the contract, I have the right to stay five more months—rent-free. I’m not exactly broke, but I know how to appreciate saving money. Besides, all the dog jobs are nearby.

“Aran Graves.” Nahla says the name like it tastes good. “So? What’s he like? You know I think he’s hot—even though he’s white. Oh my God, there he is!”

On the TV above the bar, the news is playing. Images of Aran Graves flash across the screen. With Fox by his side, he’s leaving JFK Airport and getting into a black SUV with tinted windows.

Aran’s wearing a baseball cap, collar popped, shielding himself with one hand from the photographers and flashes. It almost works. The station freezes the frame right where you can see his face.

“The guy is hot. You can’t deny it,” Nahla says, taking a sip of her beer.

I stare at the still image of Aran while the waitress sets my beer down and realize my opinion of him is starting to shift. I can’t let that happen. I remind myself who he really is.

“He’s a murderer,” I say with a shrug.

Nahla makes a face. “So no matter how hot someone is, if they killed someone, they’re automatically not hot anymore? In that case, you need to separate someone’s looks from their character. Just look at him!”

“He’s wearing a baseball cap,” I say, turning away from the screen. “How can you even judge?”

“His jawline and lips. Sexy as hell. And look at that body—it’s exactly your type!”

“My type? Stop it! You’re the one who helped me leave Luke.”

“Yeah, because he was an asshole.”

“And now you want to set me up with an ex-con?”

“A rockstar, Koh.” Nahla takes a calm sip of beer. “Jesus, you’re way too uptight. A little sex would do you good. It’s like you’ve got a stick up your ass. Should be a dick instead.”

“Oh God, please. I forget too often that I’m talking to a woman when I’m talking to you.”

“I’m serious,” she continues. “You try so hard to do everything right, and you’re so tense that all the fun disappears.”

“I meet up with you almost every week,” I reply.