I probably did. Which told me I’d gotten way too close to him. I knew I had—sitting by his bedside after the accident. Confiding in him. Kissing him. Pressing up against him at igNight. It felt good. Comfortable. I’d ignored and pushed away and beaten back the magenta that tried to fill the room whenever I was with him, but I knew it was there. It was always there, the same as it was when Jones came around me. How did I let things get to that point?

I couldn’t tell if he was the one who’d changed or if I was. Was he right? Had I started relying on him to do everything for me? It was impossible to tell.

And I hated that I was having to think about it in the first place.

It was so much easier to think about Shelby and how she could lead me to Luna. Which was saying something.

Shelby finally emerged, shoving through her front door with her hip, a cell phone to her ear. She was talking animatedly to whoever was on the other end—Luna, maybe?—and was wearing a nearly nonexistent black swimsuit covered with silver studs. The bottom half disappeared into a pair of white jeans, artfully ripped along the thighs and rolled up at the bottoms. She stumbled along in strappy crystal-embellished heels that winked in the streetlamps. Even her eyebrows twinkled in the lamplight. Clearly Shelby had shed her punk look for the wealthy glam baby that she was born to be. I curled my hands around the steering wheel. There was something about just looking at her that made me fill with murk. I could have hopped out of my car and plowed her face into the street.

Instead, I sank down in my seat, even though I was pretty sure Shelby Gray was way too into herself to notice someone watching her, and waited as she got into her car, pulled out, and left. I let her turn the corner before I followed.

Shelby drove the same way she did everything in life: like she was entitled to the road and everyone else needed to get out of her way. I could see her silhouette holding up her phone several times, as if she was texting. Or taking selfies. Knowing Shelby, she was doing both—texting selfies. She wove in and out of traffic carelessly, cutting off drivers and forcing them to swerve into other lanes and off the road. I hung back several car lengths—not because I was worried about her seeing me, but because I was worried she would kill me if I got too close.

We drove into the city, Shelby’s driving improving zero percent along the way, and when we pulled onto Sunset, I knew immediately where she was headed.

Blue Yonder. Where the fab went to party when they wanted to show off barely there, studded swimsuits and rhinestoned makeup.