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up.
    I waited.
    I didn’t wake up.
    Should I pinch myself? I wondered.
    ...Yes. Yes, I should pinch myself. Everyone said that helped with dreams. But how was I going to pinch myself without him noticing? My arms had slipped around him, and one hand was now firmly sandwiched between his broad, warm back and the brick wall behind us.
    I compromised by driving the thumbnail of my other hand into the flesh of my palm at the base of my pinky.
    Ow.
    Okay, well... fine, I was awake. I was just hallucinating. That was fine. I was certain there were plenty of pipes full of gas and carbon dioxide up here; all it would take was one little leak for us to be high. High and dead.
    Yeah. High and dead. That made way more sense than Damien admitting he’d had a crush on me since high school, because only my dumb, oxygen-deprived brain would think that was possible. In fact, this was all some sort of hallucinatory fever dream. There was a leak in the hotel, obviously. Hundreds of casualties. A tragedy on a national scale. So sad. We’d be on every major news station...
    “Lau—I mean, Cassie?”
    I blinked. “Hmm?” I asked. Dying of gas poisoning was really comfortable, just like I’d always heard. It must have been one of those odorless gasses, because he still smelled good...
    “Did you hear me?”
    “I dunno,” I said.
    “Oh,” was all he said.
    I let myself relax against him further. Maybe I could make myself die faster, if I just let sleep overtake me. I couldn’t think of a better way to go than in Damien Colton’s arms.
    “Cassie, are you dying on me?”
    I wasn’t sure. “Maybe?”
    I heard him grunt and then he was picking me up and putting me upright. The tracks of the tears on my face blew cold in the wind, but my humiliation burned deep. “Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to get all weird on you.”
    “Yeah, well,” he said, “I’m a little tipsy anyway. We’re both a bit off.”
    I laughed. “You’re tipsy? Really?” That would explain the faint smell of beer. And the confession.
    ...Which hadn’t happened, because come on . Let’s be real, here.
    But he nodded. “Had too much to drink last night,” he said. “And too much to drink this morning. And probably too much to drink this afternoon, too.”
    My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Seriously?” I said. “You?”
    He gave me a funny look. “Of course,” he said. “What, you think musicians sit around playing pachinko every night?”
    “I wouldn’t know, I’m not a musician.”
    He smiled faintly. “Well, the best way to get a musician’s attention is to run out of beer.”
    A vague shock ran through me. “Really?” I said. “Dalton Rooker, drinking?”
    A laugh burst out of him. Short. Angry. “You forget, I’m Damien now.”
    I shrugged. “Yeah, but still. You were so... good in high school.” That was one of the things that had set him apart from all the other kids: Dalton Rooker didn’t drink or drug or sleep around. Not out of any particular moral stance, but because it got in the way of his hobbies. He’d been the most obnoxiously perfect human being in the whole world back then. And that was the thing, of course. He didn’t party, but people still loved him. That was just who he was.
    “High school was a long time ago, Cassie,” he said.
    I blushed. “Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “I just can’t picture you as a bad boy.”
    He snorted. “Oh? Only my entire image is based on me being a bad boy extraordinaire.” He looked ironically amused, then reached over and popped open one of the buttons on his coat and slipped his hand inside. When it reemerged, it was holding a silver flask. He shook it at my widened eyes. “Want some?”
    I hesitated.
    He shook it again and I heard it sloshing over the sound of the wind.
    “Come on,” he said. “It’s just some rum. Good for what ails you. Like hypothermia.”
    “Alcohol doesn’t actually keep you warm,” I couldn’t help saying, my egghead, pedantic nature