Chapter 8: The Devil's Bargain
The shirt carried the heat of his skin, a borrowed warmth that seeped into her shoulders. Colson’s fingers, deft and final, closed the last button at his throat. He moved to turn, to gather the thermos and the empty pastry box, the moment folding shut.
Delaney’s hand shot out, her fingers closing around his wrist. The touch was a static shock in the dry air. Her fingers trembled, from the cold still leaching up from the rock, and from the vertigo of the game’s abrupt, unscripted end. He stilled, looking down at her grip, then up to her face, haloed by starlight and messy waves.
“Stay,” she said, the word a faint cloud. “Just for a minute. The stars… we haven’t even watched them.”
He looked at her, his eyes dark pools in the lunar shadows. He didn’t pull his wrist away. The silence stretched, filled only by the vast, whispering emptiness of the basin below.
“You’re shivering,” he stated.
“I’m aware.”
A ghost of something—amusement, perhaps—touched his mouth. He stopped gathering things. Instead, he shook out the wool blanket from the hood, laid it on the gritty ground a few feet from the car, and sat. He looked up at her, an unspoken invitation.
She unfolded herself from the hood, his shirt hanging like a dress on her frame, and joined him. The blanket was thin, the earth beneath it unyielding. They lay back, shoulder to shoulder, not touching. The sky was no longer a background; it was an overwhelming presence, a cathedral of cracked glass and cold fire. The Milky Way smeared a dusty path from one horizon to the other, so bright it felt audible.
“It’s loud,” she whispered, after a long time.
“What is?”
“The quiet. The… space. It hums.”
He didn’t answer. He just breathed, a steady rhythm beside her. The danger of him was still there, a live wire tucked under the stillness. But the thrill had transformed. It was no longer about the gamble or the exposure. It was about this: lying under the infinite with a man who contained multitudes—who could play a ruthless game and then call it off, who could drive her to the edge of the world and then just… be.
“Why the cards?” she asked, her voice small against the sky.
“Why not?”
“That’s not an answer.”
He was quiet for so long she thought he’d ignored the question. “It’s a way to see what people are made of,” he said finally. “When the stakes are real, even if they’re stupid. When it’s not about money. You see who folds. Who bluffs. Who enjoys the risk for its own sake.” He turned his head on the blanket, the grit crunching softly. “You didn’t fold. You got better as it went on.”
“I lost.”
“You played.” He turned back to the stars. “That’s the thing.”
They lapsed into silence again. The coyotes called again, closer now, a series of yips and a long, mournful howl that echoed through the canyon. It was a sound that belonged to the bones of the earth. She felt a primal stir, a hair-raising instinct. She inched closer to him, her arm now pressing against his. The solid heat of him was a bulwark against the wild sound.
“They’re miles away,” he said quietly, sensing her tension.
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
She believed him. The utter certainty in his voice was its own kind of shelter. She relaxed, minute by minute, into the rough blanket and the immense spectacle above. Her mind, usually a crowded, noisy place—thoughts of paint, deadlines, rent, the haunting image of a man and a tire iron—went perfectly, peacefully blank. There was only the cool air in her lungs, the hard ground beneath her, the searing clarity of the stars, and the line of his body beside hers.
She didn’t know how much time passed. It became irrelevant. The cold deepened, settling into a permanent layer over everything except the shared point of contact along their arms.
She felt him shift. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. His face was all angles and shadows in the starlight, his expression unreadable. She held her breath, expecting something—a kiss, a weight, a return to the intensity of the game.
He leaned down. He pressed his lips, dry and soft, to the center of her forehead. It was a chaste, fleeting pressure. A seal. A blessing. Something her grandfather might have done.
It was somehow more intimate than anything she could have imagined.
He pulled back, his eyes scanning her face. Then he stood up in one fluid motion, breaking the spell. “You’ll get sick,” he said, his voice back to its practical rumble. He offered her his hand.
She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. He kept her hand in his as he bundled the blanket with the other. He didn’t let go as he opened the passenger door for her, or as he walked around to the driver’s side. Only when they were both inside, the dome light blinking out, did he release her to start the car.
The engine’s growl was a shocking return to the human world. He turned the heater on full blast. Warm air, smelling of dust and engine, flooded over her legs.
The drive back was silent, but it was a different silence than the one that had carried them into the desert. This one was full. It held the imprint of the stars, the taste of tiramisu, the phantom feel of cards in her hand, and the startling warmth of a kiss that hadn’t sought to take anything.
He pulled up to her apartment again. This time, she didn’t wait for him to speak.
“Thursday was good,” she said, her hand on the door handle.
He looked at her, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the steering wheel. “Yeah.”
“I’m still not sure if you’re the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
A real smile, then. Small, but undeniable. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
She returned the smile, got out, and closed the door. She didn’t watch him drive away. She walked straight inside, up the stairs, past Maya’s closed door with the thumping bass, and into her own room.
She didn’t turn on the light. She walked to the window, clutching his shirt around her. Down on the street, the taillights of his Audi were two red pinpricks disappearing around a corner.
She touched her forehead.
In the dark of her room, the city’ ambient glow painting the ceilings, the vast and silent desert felt like something she had dreamed. But the smell of him on the cotton, the fine grit she could still feel in the seams of the shirt, and the specific, tender spot on her skin—they were proof. It was all real.
She sank onto her bed, pulling the shirt over her knees. The chaos inside her had been replaced by a single, focused point of curiosity, bright and burning as a star. He had seen her, and he had stepped back. The question now, vibrating in her chest, was what he would do next. And more terrifyingly, what she wanted him to do.
The rabbit, it seemed, was no longer interested in the safety of the warren. She was out in the open, under a cold, clear sky, and she was waiting.