History shows that courage can be contagious and hope can have a life of its own.

Michelle Obama

JENNIE

I'm not surprised the cops were called. Since we left the cocktail party before dinner was served, it's still pretty light outside. This happened in broad daylight, and there are a lot of witnesses. Someone was bound to call the cops.

What does surprise me is that Lisa doesn't seem to care.

Mino gives me a knowing look. "Lisa shot them in self-defense. We did nothing illegal, so we can call the cops. It's okay if they come."

"It actually helps prove my legitimacy." Lisa's voice caresses my ears. "If I was still in the mob, I'd call a cleaner and we'd handle this internally. Calling the cops means I'm out. I have nothing to hide."

"Oh," I say, as I see the first police car round the corner and park on the curb.

Two uniformed officers step out, and their weapons are drawn as they walk towards Lisa's guard, who holds his hands up in surrender. Another unmarked vehicle pulls up, and the man and woman that step out and head in our direction are wearing street clothes. They must be detectives. Behind them, the shooters are being loaded into an ambulance that has just arrived.

"Ms. Manoban," the older of the two detectives greets us.

I scramble off Lisa's lap as gracefully as possible, allowing Mino to help me up. When Lisa stands, the female detective eyes the hole in her shirt warily. At her look, she hands her the smashed up bullet for evidence. She takes a latex glove out of her pocket and uses it to place the bullet into a little Ziploc bag. I watch as she scribbles something onto the bag with a black Sharpie.

"Can you two give us your statements?" the male detective asks. "Separately?"

I go with the female detective, Mino trailing closely behind. He stays back a safe enough distance, but he still remains close. The cop sends him a suspicious look, and he gives us a few more yards of distance.

The detective begins grilling me, her tone an odd mixture of firm and gentle, but I'm able to answer all of her questions easily. Except one.

Who were they after?

I'm feeling guilty when I approach Lisa after we're both done being questioned. A crowd has gathered around us, and paparazzi are stationed behind the police barricade, obnoxiously shouting questions our way. No way will this turn out to be good press for her.

"Sorry," I say when I reach her.

"What for? It's not your fault we got shot at."

I shrug. "It's my fault we're here. Still, it was sweet of you to get me into the event tonight. I really appreciate the invitation."

Lisa stiffens, and her face hardens. "I didn't get you into this event. What are you talking about?"

I falter. "I-I got an invitation through my email. It's a senior networking event, and I'm a junior. I thought you had something to do with the invitation, that maybe you pulled some strings for me." I pause, taking in her frown. "If you didn't, then who did?"

Lisa sweeps her gaze over me, taking in my disheveled appearance. She says, "I don't know. That's what we need to find out."

It doesn't shock me to learn that I have trouble sleeping that night. It's not images of the shooting that are plaguing my mind, though. As soon as I close my eyes, I dream of Steve at the edge of my bed.

I've had this dream before. It's been awhile, but as soon as I'm immersed in the familiar bedroom, I know what will happen. This dream is a replica of what happened in real life, except in my dreams, there are two Steves.

I'm always unable to move as one remains at the foot of the bed, stroking himself, and the other approaches me, his hand reaching out to touch my body. This is the part where I usually wake up and stay super still with my eyes closed, convinced that if I open them, I'll see both of the Steves there. And they'll tell me which one of them is real—the one who doesn't touch me or the one who does. I always hope it's the former, but I'm too scared to ask. Not knowing has become a torment of its own, no doubt a byproduct of my cowardice.

This time, when I wake up, I keep my eyes closed tightly like I always do. But when I feel the bed dip, they fling open in alarm, relaxing instantly when they lock onto Lisa's concerned face. She hovers nearby before I close the distance, snuggling into the safety of her arms, remember how sheltered I felt when she hugged me after the shooting.

"Nightmare?" she asks.

I nod, but I don't say anything, letting her assume that it's from what happened earlier today. I'm not about to tell her about the unanswered questions I have for Steve Who Likes to Watch and Steve Who Likes to Touch.

"If I let you sleep on the bed, can we not talk about it tomorrow? Or ever?"

There's a rumbling of laughter in her chest before I feel her pull me tighter against her. "Yeah, Jennie. I just want you to sleep well."

I miss half of my lab the next morning. Sleeping in Lisa's arms was so comfortable, we both slept in later than we normally would. It helps that Rosé didn't come in at 5 A.M. to wake Lisa up like she usually does.

Maybe she decided to let her rest after the whole getting shot in the chest thing.

Or maybe she lost her keys.

Or maybe—fingers crossed—she's finally rethinking her job here.

Who knows what goes through that woman's mind?

By the time I make it to lab, about an hour has passed, and there's only two more hours left in the class period. I'm already feeling awkward after missing so many classes without a reprimand, so when I show up, I take my punishment like a champ, not even bothering to ask for a makeup lab. A normal student wouldn't get one, so it's only fair if I don't either.

There are eyes on me as I start extracting DNA from a tomato for PCR. It'll take almost two hours in the machine before the thermal cycling is complete, and by that time, the class period will be over. I do it anyway, so I can at least get partial participation points.

The write up for this lab, which I can't do without the data from a completed lab, is worth fifteen percent of my overall grade in the class. At most, I'll get half credit for it, which means the highest grade I can get in the class is now a 92.5%. And that's assuming I get a perfect score on everything else I turn in for the rest of the semester.

A 93% is an A-. I need a 3.7 GPA, which is an A- average, to maintain my scholarship. I've been gunning for straight As, because getting an A- is a little too close to my GPA cut off for my taste. I already have enough excitement with Lisa in my life.

Which basically means that this sucks, and the guaranteed plummet of my GPA is enough to sink my spirits. Between the shooting, the nightmare, and the grade, I'm in a really shitty mood.

It's almost enough to make me rethink this whole charade.

Once I enter Rogue, I leave Mino to talk to some of his guard friends about whatever super buff security guards like to talk about. Probably about how many people they've killed and how they've gotten away with it. Mino looks like he's got at least a dozen under his belt.

There's only one guard in front of the stairwell leading to the VIP floor when I approach the bottom of it. It's the middle of the day, so it's not operating hours. The music isn't on, and the dancers aren't in their cage-stages, but the security is certainly there in spades. There are even more guards than there usually is, which isn't surprising given the shooting that happened a few days ago.

When I reach the guard, one of the Romano guys, he smirks and says, "Let me guess. Model? Actress?"

"Fiancée."

I shove past him, ignoring his widened eyes. I feel him following behind me, so I quicken my pace until I'm practically running up the stairs.

When she sees me, Lisa's eyes widen. "Jennie? Whoa! What happened? Was there another shooti—"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I demand.

Her eyes grow wary, and they cut to the guard that followed me up there. I wait impatiently, my right foot tapping a rude rhythm against the floor, as she shakes her head at the guy, who soundlessly retreats back down the stairwell.

When Lisa's eyes come back to me, she says cautiously, "Me? What did I do?"

"My lab, Lisa." I cross my arms and try to plaster a fierce look onto my face.

I hope it's scary, because the pastel pink blouse I have on doesn't exactly scream: FEAR ME. Though she should be scared, because I am pissed the fuck off right now. I can practically feel my cells humming in sheer anger.

I try not to yell, but I do anyway. "My fucking lab!"

"Oh." Her face relaxes. "You're welcome."

"You're welcome? Are you fucking kidding me? That's what you say to me after interfering with my grades?"

"Wha—" Lisa's jaw drops a little. "You're mad about that?"

"Of course, I'm mad," though my anger is quickly dissipating. I'm just tired now, and with that comes a newfound vulnerability. "Wilton is the only valuable thing I have in my life that's completely mine, and it's already tainted.

"People stare at me when I walk into class now, and I know they're angry about all the special treatment I'm getting. They won't say anything, because you're you, but I know they're thinking it. I don't even blame them. I can't blame them. The special treatment I'm getting is unfair for them. That's a fact.

"The worst part is that I can't even decline your help, because without it, I'm just a random girl that missed dozens of classes and deserves to be placed on academic suspension not to mention have her scholarship revoked.

"But this? This lab? I didn't ask you to help me with that. I could have taken the hit to my GPA. I deserve to take the hit."

Lisa's eyes soften. "I'm sorry. I just thought… It was my fault you overslept and failed the lab, so I fixed it."

She still thinks I was up all night with nightmares about the shooting—not the two Steves.

I don't correct her.

"This is my life, Lisa! Mine. There's nothing to be 'fixed,' especially not by you." I sigh, forcing myself to release my residual anger, since her heart was in the right place. "Look, I know you thought you were doing the right thing, but I would appreciate it if, from now on, you don't interfere with my life any more than necessary."

"And the aspects that I need to interfere with?"

"There's nothing that you 'need' to interfere with."

"We're engaged, Jennie. There are aspects of our life that are intertwined."

"Consult with me first."

She looks at me, her eyes taking in my face and then my body. I struggle to control my body's reaction to her perusal.

Lisa nods stiffly. "Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not doing this with you, Lisa."

A boyish smirk etches itself onto her face. "Fine."

I don't bother answering. I turn and leave.

But my heart is pounding, because even though I don't want her help, she went out of her way to do something nice for me.

And damn if that doesn't make me like her a little more.