Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(67)

“Do you know anything about this man?”

“He’s middle-aged. Owns another speakeasy in Baton Rouge. Seems nice enough.”

“And you’re just going to run off to a strange city halfway across the country to work for a complete stranger?”

“It’s what I did when I came here.”

A rising panic tightened his chest. “You won’t have anyone there to look after you.”

Slender fingers tucked the front locks of her bob behind her ears as she bent to pick up her skirt. “I’ve made it this far on my own.”

God only knew how—a miracle she hadn’t been raped or robbed or killed in some dark alley after leaving one of her shows in the middle of the damn night. The only unescorted women roaming the street that late were . . . Christ, he didn’t know if there were any. Even prostitutes had sense enough to stay behind closed doors. It panicked him to think about her off somewhere, out of his reach, where he couldn’t be there in minutes. “New Orleans is a vice-ridden port city, cheetah.”

“San Francisco is a vice-ridden port city, Mr. Bootlegger.”

Swearing in Swedish under his breath, he hunted down his clothes, trying to hide the unsettling mix of anger and hurt churning inside. This was preposterous, her traipsing off. He knew she had to leave—of course he knew. But in the back of his mind, he’d pictured her in Seattle or Portland, maybe Los Angeles. Somewhere on the West Coast, where he could take an afternoon train and be there in time to catch her show. And where the hell were his socks? He didn’t for the life of him remember taking them off.

“Here.” She handed him two limp black dress socks.

“When do you leave?”

She stilled and bit the center of her upper lip.

“When?” he insisted.

“About a week.”

His throat felt as if he’d swallowed wet cement. “One week?”

She nodded. “Now you know why I’m sad.”

That was nothing—no time at all. “What if Gris-Gris offered you a longer contract?”

“Velma already has a telepath booked, and don’t you dare storm into her office and force her to keep me. I can already see the wheels turning. I won’t take something I haven’t earned honestly, and I can’t stand being in debt to someone else. I’m not sure if you understand that, but it’s important to me.”

Unfortunately he did understand. Even if his work was illegal, it was hard work, and he didn’t cut corners to get it done. His father had always told him there were few greater shames than debt. It was a matter of pride.

But what they had together was bigger than pride—his or hers.

“A week, a month—it makes no difference,” she said. “We both knew I’d be leaving eventually. You didn’t want anything permanent when you suggested we share a bed, remember?”

Yes, he remembered. He buttoned the fly of his pants and plunked back down on the bed. “I can’t believe you’re really going.”

Her stockinged legs stepped between his. She cupped his cheeks with small, warm hands. “Only live for today—that’s what Sam taught me. But if I’m being honest, I’ve never wanted to leave a place less . . . or a person.”

If that was really true, then why was she going?

• • •

The temple was located in a narrow, nondescript three-story brick building crowded between a dozen others just like it. A steady stream of locals and western tourists paraded under strings of triangular orange flags that hung above the entrance. The main sign, from which swaying lanterns hung, was painted in Chinese characters. A secondary cloth banner below read LION RISE TEMPLE.

Winter tried to summon up the will to care that the man who poisoned him was inside, and that he might soon be where Parducci was if he didn’t watch himself, but his mind was fixated on Aida’s news. Every time he looked at her, she was staring out the window, lost in her own thoughts, unreadable. Meanwhile, he was slowly sinking.

Only live for today. Complete and utter bullshit.

In a week, she’d be gone, on to some new adventure. Maybe even another lover. The thought of someone else touching her made his stomach harden into a black lump. His hands curled into fists.

She acted as though she had no qualms about walking away and never looking back. As though he was merely a choice for dinner—beef or chicken, and tomorrow she’d be dining somewhere else. Goddamn casual affair. Possibly the stupidest idea he’d had in years. Casual was Sook-Yin, or Florie Beecham.

Casual was not Aida.

Had all of this meant nothing to her? The time she spent in his arms? He stole a look at her as Bo parked the car across the street from the temple. That same deep line divided her brows. She chewed on her bottom lip. Either he was a fool, falling for someone who didn’t feel the same way, or she was lying through her teeth with this breezy, live-for-today act. God give him the strength to figure out which it was before it was too late.

Spice-tinged floral smoke drifted from the temple. Winter surveyed the area and found nothing out of the ordinary, so he, Aida, and Bo approached by foot. A few cars behind, four of his men shadowed them to the entrance.

An attractive pair of girls wearing embroidered red silk cheongsams collected donations from entering patrons. Winter stuffed a bill into their tin as they stepped into a wide chamber—something between a lobby and a museum. Gilded columns, elaborately carved wooden screens, and ornate statues of Chinese deities filled the low-ceilinged space. Two red doors at the far end of the room opened into a courtyard, open to the sky, where a red and gold pagoda housed the temple’s shrine bookended by a pair of iron Chinese lions.