The red deepened to purple, but Shaw’s voice remained the same. “Before? While you were still in Vegas?”

“I hope he was worth it, child, because you only get one first.”

North exploded out of his chair, launching himself at Regina, but Regina was, by some miracle, faster. Regina spun out of the chair, shoving it at North and catching him at the knees with it, causing him to stumble, fold forward, his chest cracking across the back of the chair. At the same time Regina’s hand lashed out, raking open four deep furrows on North’s cheek. She danced back. North righted himself, kicked the chair clear of his path, and took a step.

But only one. Because Shaw had a grip on his jacket and yanked him back a step.

“Cool it,” was all Shaw said, two whip-crack words.

The three of them stood there. The slashes on North’s cheek stung, and he could feel blood drip hot lines down to his jaw, run toward his chin, bead, fall. A heavy drop spattered on the toe of his Red Wings.

“I learned a long time ago,” Regina said, her eyes bright, her chest rising and falling. “I learned how to deal with macho fags like you a long time ago, sweetie.”

“Talk to him again like that,” North said. “Look at him again like that.”

“Enough.” Shaw actually shook North by the collar that time. “How long has someone been blackmailing you, Regina?”

On stage, the noise muted through the closed door of the dressing room, someone was singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” while a remixed, electronic version of the tune blasted through the theater.

“Let’s go,” Shaw said.

Regina’s face was still shining with that same wild exhilaration, her eyes still like neutron stars off in deep space. Her breathing was still sheared off in huge, uneven gulps. But her voice was even as she said, “Ever since I bought the Lucky.”

“Fine. North, let’s get out of here.”

Chapter 22

Ow. Owwww. Ow. Ow. Ow. For fuck’s sake, Shaw, fucking—owwwwwww.”

When North reached up to try to bat Shaw’s hand away, Shaw grabbed his wrist and shoved the arm back down. Then Shaw tried some of the breathing exercises that Dr. Farr had given him. In. Hold. Slow release. In. Hold. Slow release. As he breathed, he dabbed at the cuts on North’s face with a Q-tip and iodine, while North was busy being the biggest baby outside of the closest NICU.

But breathing wasn’t helping. He kept jabbing with the Q-tip instead of dabbing. He kept jabbing. He kept jabbing. He kept jabbing and swabbing and using way more iodine than necessary. And since breathing wasn’t helping, Shaw tried his visualizations. He pictured himself as an observer standing on the edge of the road. He pictured his rage as this enormous fire truck barreling past him. He could see the fire truck in all its vibrant red. He could feel the fire truck in the cyclone of loose stones and debris stirred by its passage, in the wall of air that flattened against him and made it hard to breathe. He could feel all of that and still be separate from it, an observer. He could witness his own anger without being part of it.