Despite her vexation, the journey back to their parked cars was fun. As they traversed Freedom Parkway, Theo decided to showcase his knowledge of his friends’ favorite Atlanta songs. When he’d first arrived from California, he’d insisted on finding everyone’s individual song. Everyone had a song, he’d sworn, leaving no one out, even Zed, who didn’t even really listen to music. Queuing up a playlist on his phone, he streamed “Best Friend” for Sol, “Weeastpointin’” for Kai, “Bring Em Out” for Apollo, “Wrist” for himself, “Swing My Way” for Zed, and “Scotty” for Jerry. Everyone’s song had been played in full by the time they reached the parking lot, but after they’d deposited their bags into Zed’s trunks and hugged and dapped each other up, Theo lingered, looking at them expectantly.

“What?” Sol snapped.

Goofily, Theo pointed at the sky and started swaying. “Ki, ki, ki, ki,” he chanted while launching into the dance, his strained voice echoing throughout the parking lot, scaring a shopper emerging from a yoga studio who dashed to his car. The rest of the crew immediately chimed in, Zed taking the backing vocals, Kai taking the ad-libs, and Apollo and Sol joining Theo for the verses. Minutes later, they were leaning on their vehicles, rollicked by continual bursts of spontaneous laughter. Jerry would be proud, Zed thought, another laugh seizing her, the promise of the night finally fulfilled.

chapter 16

The weather was fussy. In a twenty-five-minute span, Tilly had seen lightning bolts, sunlight, hail, and pure sky. It was annoying. More annoying than the ill-fitting Kevlar vest that loosely hung over her body. The custom-fitted vest had once been snug, but she’d lost too much weight, almost all of it from her breasts. Despite living in a city where even the deeply impoverished managed to avoid walking, Houndum demanded that all agents be intensely fit. She’d gone from running an eight-minute mile to a six-minute mile, her Coke-bottle physique melting into a tennis ball canister. She missed her bust, but it was nice to know that her body could still undergo change, could still morph.

Rick’s enthusiasm was unchanged. He drove patiently, accommodating every driver who wanted to merge, pass, honk, or tailgate. The driver’s seat was tilted at an absurd angle, the back of the seat almost touching the passenger seats behind it, but Rick sat arrow-straight, his spine a yardstick.

“How do you feel about Ciara?” Rick asked.

“No opinion,” Tilly sighed. Rick was convinced that everyone cared about music as much as he did. He was wrong.

“But she’s Ciara, child of Missy, mother of Future, ex of Future. She’s like this generation’s Erykah Badu,” he pleaded.

Tilly remained silent.

“She’s her own artist, of course, too,” he added, extending his plea.

“Drive faster, Rick. I have shit to do.”

“Sure thing, partner,” he muttered, turning on his radio.