City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(56)

Anders is on his feet, sneaking glances at me as he lowers his voice to say, “We both had way too much to drink that night, Diana, and I feel like I took advantage. I said that afterward. I meant it.”

“And I said you didn’t take advantage, which means it’s a bullshit excuse. I was f*ckable when you were drunk. Why not just say that and—”

“Di, let’s step out,” I say.

“I asked if you had your eye on Will, and you brushed me off, when obviously—”

“When obviously I’m having a drink with both my co-workers—”

“But you’ve only got your eye on one.” She turns to Dalton. “Don’t bother. Casey might have lousy taste, but one thing she doesn’t go for? Weird.”

“Di!” I say.

“What? He is. Everyone says so. He’s got more screws loose than you, which is saying a lot. No, like I told Casey, Will, you’re exactly her type. Hot guys with more muscles than brains.”

My fingers are locked around her arm again as I hiss, “That’s enough—”

“Did she tell you boys about the guy she left behind? Ex-con bartender who could barely spell his own name. The guy was so dumb he took a bullet for her, and when she tells him she’s leaving, he gives her that cheap necklace she’s wearing.”

I’ve released her arm, and I’m shouldering my way through the crowded bar.

“Hey!” Diana calls. “Where are you going? Can’t take the truth, Casey …”

She keeps talking. I walk out.


I’m in the gap between the bar and the next building, catching my breath, trembling with rage.

I’m not angry over what she said about me. An ex once said there was no use insulting me because nothing he could say was worse than what I already thought of myself. I think he was 50 percent full of shit—a frustrated psych major who couldn’t get into grad school—but the other 50 percent …? I don’t know.

What I’m pissed off about is letting Diana insult two guys who sure as hell didn’t deserve it. I should have wised up and realized that once her target was gone, she’d stop.

Footsteps sound behind me. I’m facing the wall. I wait to be sure they’re coming my way, and it’s not just some random drinker who decided he needed an outdoor piss. The booted footfalls keep coming.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That put you in a bad spot, and …” I turn, expecting Will, and see Dalton. “Oh.”

“Will’s walking her home,” he says. “I asked him to.”

“Thank you. I’m really sorry. She’s drunk and—”

“She’s a bitch.”

I don’t stiffen. I don’t leap to her defence. I feel as if I should, because I always do, and she’s my friend and she’s drunk. But I just say, “What she said about you was totally uncalled for—”

“Don’t give a shit about that. You think I haven’t heard it?” He puts one hand on the wall and leans against it. “I know what I am, Casey. Hearing it from someone like that sure as hell doesn’t bother me. She’s a vindictive, jealous brat, and the fact that you’ve actually been friends with her for half your life proves you had a martyr complex even before that Saratori business.”

“Wow. Thanks. Really. Because what I need right now—”

“What you need right now is to stop feeling responsible for Diana. Maybe I’m exaggerating about the martyr thing, but if you tell me that you didn’t initially befriend her because you felt sorry for her? I’m calling bullshit.”

I say nothing.

“You felt sorry for her, and she’s been clinging to you ever since. You give and she takes, and then she has the gall to resent you for every imagined—”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“You know I’m right.”

“I also know you like to tell me what’s wrong with me, and I know I don’t much like to hear it.”

“Seemed you were okay when she was doing it.”

I zip my jacket. “I’m sorry she ruined our evening. It was a good one. Thank you for that, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He follows me out and down the road. When I’m sure that’s not just because he happens to be heading the same way, I say without turning, “If you’re escorting me home, walk with me, please. Otherwise I feel like I’m being stalked.”

He catches up with a few strides. We don’t talk. We reach my porch, and I unlock my door and turn and say, “Thanks.”

Then I pause. He can rub me the wrong way, and I sure as hell don’t appreciate being psychoanalyzed, but otherwise it’s been a good day for us. I don’t want to end it being rude, so I say, “You’re welcome to come in for a coffee, but after what Diana said …”

“Diana’s a—” He cuts himself off, though it looks as painful as if he actually bit his tongue. “I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks, Butler, in case that isn’t perfectly clear by now. Whatever a guy down south might expect of being asked into a woman’s place, I’m not from down south. I figure you’re offering me coffee because I walked you home and it’s cold out and you’d feel rude turning me away at the door. To which I’d say that you worry too f*cking much about being nice, especially to those who aren’t particularly nice in return, but apparently you don’t like me pointing out your faults.”