Ezra almost laughed, because it really had: if you looked at Gregory straight on, you’d wonder if you were having a bit of a stroke because his nose just never sat right on his face again. But Ezra found that he was in too much pain for any joy: his eyes were really killing him now, and he started to notice that his throat didn’t feel so hot either.

“I think I may have inhaled that pepper spray,” he said. He swigged from his coffee cup, and it stung going down but maybe helped a little bit.

They sat in silence for a long minute. The songs switched and “All I Want For Christmas Is You” started up, instantly recognizable.

“Mariah,” Frankie said, like Ezra didn’t know who sang it.

“Obviously,” he replied.

“She bailed out one of my artists—let us sample a song when we were up shit’s creek. So, like, I have her number in my phone.”

“I’m not sure Mariah Carey would be the one to call in an emergency.” Ezra knew that wasn’t what she meant, that she was only showing off, throwing around her self-importance, but he wanted to needle her anyway.

“Well, this is a different type of emergency, ok? So don’t be a dickhead.” Frankie winced and squeezed her eyes shut. “Goddammit, my head hurts.”

“I think maybe you’re the one who needs to go to student health?” Ezra said.

Frankie made a noise that sounded like indignant disdain, as if seeking help was a weakness. Ezra blew out his breath and scanned his brain once more for any speck of information that could help him sort it out—something about Alec Barstow being an ordained minister worried him, like as preposterous as this all was, as banged up as they both were, there was a not-zero chance that the damage could be, might be, far worse. Shit. He tugged out the keys from his pocket, ran his fingers over the beveled edges, then spun the gold band around his left ring finger.

“Look,” he said finally. “The only way we figure this out is if we do this together.” He paused, really considered it. Would they do it together? Could they do it together? “So,” he finally continued and held out his right hand. “Truce?”

SEVEN

Frankie

Frankie fiddled with the set of keys—four total on a Middleton key chain—and watched Ezra while he asked the nice girl at the coffee shop if he could borrow the phone. They’d agreed to a truce, but Frankie wondered, really, how long either of them would stick with it. Fidelity had never been their problem, but maybe loyalty had.

The barista passed him the cordless. She seemed young enough to be in high school and had a nose ring and a messy topknot bun and was looking at him oddly, but then he did look like a figurative dumpster fire, like maybe he’d just emerged from a fistfight or possibly a run-in with a swarm of hornets. Ezra asked for a phone book and flipped the pages until he found the hotel, and Frankie overheard him requesting a connection for room number 303. Then his mangled face fell when, clearly, it rang and rang and rang.