Perry puffs out a huge exhale. “Fair point.” Then he wraps both hands behind him.

Lars handcuffs him, checks the tightness, and leaves.

It’s so quiet between me and Perry that it’s clear neither of us knows what to say.

He stretches his long legs out in front of himself with a groan. “Fuck, this hurts.”

“Imagine losing your ear.”

“Almost did.” He tries to shrug, but it doesn’t really work with his arms pulled tight. “At least if they come for you, you can get away.”

“They were aiming for you.”

“Debatable. See, I don’t have anyone who wants me killed, but we have proof you do.”

That’s the faultiest logic I’ve ever heard. “We also didn’t have proof anyone wanted me dead until you shot at me. Welcome to the world of being wanted.”

My tone is as dry as fucking possible, but when Perry turns those big brown eyes on me, I’m not prepared to feel … sorry for him. Jesus. This whole thing is a headfuck of epic proportions.

His big white sneaker taps nervously against the floor.

“So, uh, how about those alien sightings?”

And like that, pity’s gone. “Alien sightings?”

“Yeah, there’s been an increase in UFOs entering our airspace.” His tone perks right up. “Do you know that there’s almost one hundred sightings a month on average? And it’s up from that. Plus, about a quarter of people have spotted one that it can’t be⁠—”

“Wait, wait, wait. You believe in aliens?”

He blinks at me, stunned. “That makes them sound like they’re not real.”

I almost choke. “Because they’re not.”

“Sheesh,” he mutters. “No wonder someone wanted you dead.”

“Excuse me?”

His goofy, lopsided smile comes out. “Too soon to joke about that?”

“It will always be too soon. But I have a good idea of who wants to kill me and why. The question is, who the hell is after you?”

No offense to Perry, but being a barista and newly disastrous hitman doesn’t exactly scream primary target to me.

“Ah.” He shifts in the chair, shoulders obviously getting uncomfortable. “I have a sneaky widdle feeling that it might be the same people.”

My face falls into a frown. “I’d say no offense, but your feelings aren’t high on the list of things I care about, so why the hell would some drug lord nightclub owners give a shit about you?”

If I didn’t know any better, instead of looking offended, he seems amused. “It’s only a hunch, but I don’t think they liked paying me for a job I didn’t do.”

“A job … me?”

“Yup.”

“They paid you?”

“What?” he asks, this time sounding offended. “You were supposed to be dead. We pinky swore.”

“Who’s stupid enough to take some crime lord’s money?”

“In my defense, I didn’t know they were a crime lord.”