The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(54)

A burst of licorice hit my tongue when I crunched into them. I held out my hand for a few more.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Above me, a massive dark raincloud menaced. That wet electric smell had gotten sharper. It was still muggy though, and I was stoned and comfortable under the canopy of leaves so I didn’t bother moving.

I glanced at Rohan who still seemed lost in painful memories. I decided not to probe. “You sound remarkably well-adjusted now.” I brushed the wreckage of the leaf he’d shredded off of his thigh. “Or not.”

Rohan gave a wry laugh. “This is definitely the well-adjusted version. You should have seen me even a year ago.”

“Fucking everything that moved?” I asked, cursing myself for putting images into my very visual brain.

“More like fighting.”

“Hence your impressive kill record.”

“What about you?” he asked.

I laughed, shaking my head.

“What?”

I repositioned myself, sitting sideways on the bench, my legs tucked up alongside me. “You get this is surreal, right? Sitting here getting stoned with Rohan Mitra while he asks about me?”

He preened. “Your teen fantasy made real. You’re overwhelmed.”

I shoved his shoulder. He didn’t budge, but when he nudged me back, I jostled sideways. Such strength. Bet he could pin me down.

“There’s not much to tell.” I curled my fingers under the bench to grip it.

Rohan extended the blades on his right hand, bringing them up to eye-level with a waggle. “Ve hav vays of making you talk,” he said in a horrible German accent. The blades disappeared. “I know you didn’t spring fully formed. You’d have been nicer.” He jabbed my side. “Tell me. Ari was the initiate, you were the what?”

I rubbed my arms.

Rohan shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my shoulder, shaking his head at me when I tried to protest.

Feebly.

What can I say? The thing was soft as butter and smelled like him.

“I was going to dance,” I said.

“Like around a pole?” I shot him the finger at the giggle that escaped him.

“Like Heather Cornell, Chloe Arnold, Dormeshia Sumbry-Edwards, Lady Di Walker, you asshole. None of whom are Shirley Temple and all of whom are amazing tap dancers.”

He held up his hands. “Sorry. So that was your dream?”

I brushed my cheek against the collar, pretending to be scratching my jaw with my shoulder, snuggling into his residual warmth, and letting myself be enveloped in a Rohan cocoon. “Yeah. When I was about three I saw this old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire tap number. After that I insisted my dad fix my shoes to ‘make those noises,’ so he taped pennies to my slippers.” I smiled at the memory. “I refused to take them off. They enrolled me in my first class that fall.”

“What was the highlight?” I checked to see if he was humoring me but he seemed genuinely interested.

“The summer before grade eleven, I got accepted into a special program where I studied with master tappers and then performed at Lincoln Center. That was pretty fucking mind-blowing. Not sold out concert stadiums though,” I said, with a wry grin.

“I never played Lincoln Center. I’m impressed. So, what happened?”

I shrugged, not able to get into it right now. Damn stoner confessions never went anywhere good.

Rohan didn’t press me. “Do you miss dancing?”

“Like breathing,” I said in a thick voice.

He slung an arm around my shoulder and curled me into him. Nooked into his arm like that, I felt protected. Snug.

Home.

Bad stoner thought. I disengaged from his hold. It was stupid but I missed the warmth of it. The protectiveness. “Do you miss it?”

“Fame? Not even a bit.”

“Singing. Your band.” I cocked my head to look at him. “Do they know you’re Rasha?”

“Zack does. The other three were dicks. We’re not in contact anymore.”

“And the singing?” No answer.

He’d been a rock superstar and I didn’t understand how someone walked away from living the dream. Especially when I’d have given everything for it. “You can’t tell me of all people that you don’t miss something you cared so much about for such a long time.”

He shrugged.

“What about the music itself?” I said. “You say the rest of your band are jerks but you guys were together for a few years. There must have something good about the collaboration.”

Rohan raised an eyebrow. “Still dwelling on the wrong members of the band, are you?”

“You never know. I might want to revisit my fanfic.” I nudged his leg. “Come on. I’m talking shop with the great Rohan Mitra and you’re not gonna tell me?”

He reached over me to pick up the pipe and lighter, sparking up with a flick of his thumb. I waited as he inhaled, watching him leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He held the smoke in for so long, it had to be a stonewalling tactic. Finally, he exhaled, a long column of smoke that dissolved into the late night mist.

“The writing, the jamming, was one of the best parts.” He gazed up at me through his lashes. “I mean performing is always tops, you know that.”