Free Lost Angeles by Lisa Mantchev, A.L. Purol Page B

than a nun.”
    “I’m not sure what nuns you’ve met that wear leather pants…” I let that trail off, just to see what he’s going to say.
    Right on cue, he hits me with, “The ones in my kind of church.”
    I can’t help but roll my eyes. “And this is why I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
    Xaine reaches out a hand and starts flicking through the rack of clothes like a little kid stuck in a department store. “Says who?”
    Affecting boredom is harder than it looks. “Everyone, and with good reason, probably.”
    “Newsflash, Bunny, I’m hardly a stranger. You’ve known me your whole life.”
    A smooth gambit, I’ll give him that. “Almost everyone has. You’re famously immortal. In any case, it was nice meeting you.”
    That recaptures his attention, but good. Xaine’s head cocks to the side, one brow arching in surprise. Abandoning the clothes, he moves toward me. The sound of his shoes on the stage is hollow, loud, and steady.
    Allargando.
    “Did you just dismiss me?” Before I have a chance to answer, he narrows his eyes and leans in a little to ask, “ Who says fuzzy bunnies shouldn’t talk to strangers, anyway? Enquiring minds want to know.”
    I make a show of plucking at the fabric of my shirt. “My parents, my roommate, Jax Trace, every PSA ever.”
    Whatever remains of Xaine’s humor fizzles away. “Jax… Trace. As in Genesis Records’ Jax Trace?” He holds out a hand. “About yay-high, ass for a chin, enough hair gel to function as a motorcycle helmet Jax Trace?” When I nod, he adds, “How do you know him?”
    A half-shrug. “I do my research.”
    “Meaning you hit up Google.” Sounds like a joke, but Xaine’s still eying me like I might have spygear hidden under my Spanx.
    “Yup.” Then I slant him a sidelong glance. “A wealth of information there, but even the internet can’t tell me why you and Ms. Reece called it quits.”
    His expression goes black at that. “You’re right, you shouldn’t talk.”
    No qualification there, and he stares me down, waiting for me to flinch or balk, but like I told Jax Trace, I can do this all day .
    “The slutty ones are quieter,” I only offer up. “Or so I hear.”
    He snorts. “Not in my experience.”
    “So what exactly was your experience?” I drill him a little, then add, “Enquiring minds want to know.”
    His eyes narrow. “I don’t give a shit if you work for the tabloids, but at least pretend like you don’t, all right?”
    I grin at that. “First I’m a spy, then I’m a reporter. Which is it, Sherlock?”
    “So you’re telling me you’re just nosy?”
    “That’s for me to know and you to wonder about,” I tell him. “But I’m willing to trade secrets if you are.”
    “Oh, yeah? And what do you know that I’d give two shits about, exactly?”
    “I’m sure you’ve got at least one question you’d like answered.” I probably shouldn’t goad him. Scratch that, I definitely shouldn’t goad him, but as long as Reille continues to play possum with me, Xaine’s my only option.
    Not that he would appreciate me phrasing it like that.
    He snaps his fingers at the wardrobe people, and they skitter off the stage like cockroaches when the lights go on. In a three-count, we’re alone, and only then does Xaine fire off with, “Ok, I’ll bite. Answer for an answer, until someone chickens out, and I get to start. How do you know Jax Trace?”
    “He gave me a ride to my audition,” I answer.
    “Because he moonlights as a cabbie?”
    “Because he’s my guardian angel.” Over the top of Xaine’s impossibly rude noise, I say, “That was a two-fer.”
    “Two-fer, my ass,” he sputters. “You didn’t answer the question.”
    “Yes, I did. My turn. How long has Reille worked at Scion?”
    That seems to flummox him for a moment, and he has to visibly count back to answer. “Six months. Why do you give a shit?”
    “Is that an official question?” My palms sweat, but I keep the lighthearted tone