Tracy leaned in closer to stare into her own eyes.

"Yup," Izzy said. "Your invisibility cloak is still malfunctioning."

She pulled off a clump of mascara, then moved on to an examination of her mouth. Rubbing her lips together, then pursing them, she checked for imperfections, turning her head this way and that. "Have you ever tried putting on makeup in the dark?"

"Generally, I don't wear very much unless I'm going to a party," he told her.

She frowned at herself, then let her hair out of her ponytail, shaking her head to distribute it more evenly around her shoulders. But that needed a closer visual confirmation, too.

She moved it around a bit, adjusted it, fluffed it. Izzy couldn't really tell the difference. But whatever she did, she seemed satisfied that she was now totally and undeniably fuckable. The smile she sent him proved it. She'd set her flirtatiousness on kill, heavy on the eye contact.

This was going to be interesting, because despite that smile, her body language was, once again, a twisted mix of signals. Shoulders tight and defensive. Hands tucked in close.

Of course, maybe she was just cold.

But probably not. Izzy had watched her on the flight to New Hampshire and thought he'd picked up a pattern. When she was in a large group, she flirted shamelessly, without hesitation.

When she was one-on-one, though, that was where her signals started to get weird.

But okay. He was willing to play this game. Especially since Jenkie's close encounter with Lindsey had forfeited any claim he had on Tracy. Izzy's rules of engagement had changed.

"Personally, I thought the ponytail was cute," Izzy told Tracy, deliberately holding her gaze. "And I find the no-makeup thing sexy. It's very roommate's girlfriend just out of the shower. Makes me all hot and bothered."

She looked away, pretending to be fascinated with a grimy cardboard ad for Sam Adams Winter Lager at the wall end of the table. Was that real shyness suddenly kicking in, or was she just being coy and playing him like a cheap violin? With crazy Tracy, it was hard to tell.

Across the room, the bartender put the tequila bottle and two shot glasses on the bar. Apparently this was a self-service joint.

"I thought we were going to Hooters," Tracy explained, as Izzy slid back out of the booth. "No self-respecting woman on earth would walk into a Hooters without makeup on."

They'd found this little roadhouse right on the outskirts of town. It was fifteen minutes closer than the gas station, so they'd stopped. Izzy'd parked at the edge of the unlit lot, along with two mangy-looking pickup trucks and a scorched Toyota Corolla that appeared to have survived the apocalypse. Assuming the apocalypse had happened without him noticing.

He grabbed the bottle and one of the glasses from the bar.

"We could still go to Hooters," he said as he sat back down, fully knowing what Tracy's response would be, since she was eyeballing that tequila bottle as if it were the Second Coming. Hooters only served beer and wine. "It seems a shame to go to all that effort for nothing."

She took the bottle from him and poured herself a shot. Downed it like a pro. Poured again, and-whoa-again bottomed up. She was like a woman on a mission.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" Izzy asked. "Because you shouldn't be. No one expects anything from you. You just have to show up."

She didn't look convinced, so he kept going. "I'll be with you the whole time. I'm part of the Red Cell-the terrorists who'll be holding you hostage."

"So, in other words, I shouldn't trust you or believe a word that you say," Tracy countered. She poured another shot. Waved the bottle at him. "Sure you don't want some?"

"I do, but I can't," he said.

"Maybe just one to take the edge off?" She pushed the glass toward him. "I won't tell." She was already feeling the effects of those first two shots. Her tension level had dropped from a ten to a nine point five. She was still tightly wound, but Izzy was no longer concerned that her face was going to crack.

He pushed the glass back. "It doesn't work that way."

She shrugged. Drained the glass. Refilled it.

Damn, maybe Stella had been right about Tracy having a drinking problem. "So. Is this your usual nightcap regimen?"

She laughed. Toasted him. "Liquid courage."

"I'm telling you," Izzy said. "Tomorrow's going to be fun. You don't have to be afraid."

"What's the hardest thing you've ever done?"

He didn't have to think about it. "Doing nothing," he said.

Tracy didn't get it. She was in the process of seriously stewing her brain cells, but even fully sober, she probably would have struggled with the concept. "Nothing has ever been hard?" she asked, frowning at him.

There was a time and place for dick jokes, but sitting in this drafty little roadhouse with Tracy Shapiro and her weird mixed signals was not one of them.

"What I meant," Izzy said, "was that the hardest thing I've ever done was to do nothing. Kind of like stepping away from you the other night when you invited me to follow you home."

Whatever she saw in his eyes made her lift that glass and pour that tequila down her throat.

Just like the night she'd returned to the Ladybug for her allegedly missing jacket, Tracy's body language was a curious mix of fear and hope. And bravado.

"That's the hardest thing you've ever done." Skepticism tinged her voice. "Not following me home?"

Izzy smiled. "No, but the concept's the same. There's something that you want really badly, but you know if you do it, you'll be in an even worse situation. Frying pan to fire, you know? I was once in a bind that I can't go into in too much detail. But it was recon-which means you're there just to watch and listen. You don't engage the enemy. Usually you're seriously outnumbered, and that was the case this time, so...I stumbled into this really bad scene. About a dozen hostages had just been murdered in the middle of this field, their bodies left to rot-at least that's what I thought. I should've stayed hidden, but I didn't. I wanted to be able to identify them-see if they included this pair of American doctors who'd been grabbed." They had definitely been among the dead. "I was taking pictures when the enemy returned."

Pictures as well as DNA samples, using his pant leg as a petri dish. But she didn't have to know that.

"There was nowhere to hide," Izzy continued, "so I had to pull the bodies on top of me and play dead. That was absolutely the hardest thing I've ever done-to lie there and not move. To listen to them congratulate themselves for killing these two doctors who were completely dedicated to saving lives-who wouldn't have hesitated to treat them if they were wounded."

But lie there he had. With the already swelling bodies of Drs. Mary Ullright and Charlotte Weston covering him. Gagging from the smell was not an option. He was beyond lucky that none of the enemy had taken a closer look or done a head count.

"Another thing that saved me was the enemy's shortage of ammo," he told Tracy, who was clearly both grossed out and impressed. "If there'd been enough bullets, some hot dog prolly would have drilled all the bodies one more time-including mine. One thing I've learned through the years is that luck plays an important part in survival."

"How many-" Tracy stopped herself, taking a moment to gnaw on her lush lower lip. She rephrased. "Do you keep track of things, like, how many lives you've saved, or...taken?"

"Absolutely," he said. "I've got a kill belt. Actually, I've got three of 'em. I make a notch for-Look at you-you're buying this shit. Do you keep track?"

"I've never killed anyone," she pointed out. "And what are my chances of ever saving anyone's life? I'm the Lieutenant Uhura of Troubleshooters Incorporated. Hailing frequencies open, Captain! Maybe if I try really hard, I can save someone from a paper cut."

"Do you keep track of guys you've slept with?" Izzy asked. "Hearts you've broken?"

He'd said it to make her bristle defensively, but she took it totally in stride.

"Doesn't everybody keep score to some degree?" she countered, pouring herself more tequila. "It's human nature. Don't you think? To keep rankings, too. Was it yawnable, or total screaming monkey sex?"

"So, what are you saying? You have a belt with notches? Color-coded? Gray for yawnable. Vermilion for-"

"If I did, it wouldn't be a very colorful belt," Tracy admitted. "Or a very long one. Only two notches, one of them gray."

Was she serious? If she was shitting him, she was doing an incredible job of it. She was no longer meeting his gaze, and she tossed back that shot as if she needed it desperately.

"That's...actually pretty admirable," Izzy told her. "I mean, in a world where people treat sex casually, that's...I'm impressed."

She looked up at him. And again, if the shy thing was an act, she deserved an Oscar. God, she had the prettiest eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said.

"You don't think it's pathetic? Considering Lyle would probably have a belt that he could wrap around him three times?" She rolled those eyes at the mention of her ex. "God, I'm such a loser."

She was on the verge of sliding into full-steam pity-party mode. So he sang to her. "Well, I lay my head on the railroad track waiting on the Double E."

She gave him her what the fuck? look. "Why do you do that? Just randomly start to sing?"

"Because each of the thousands of people I've killed had a favorite song, and since part of them lives inside me now-"

"Sometimes I think you're completely crazy," Tracy told him. "I never know when you're serious or when you're kidding."

"Usually I start kidding when people get serious. Too much serious gives me a rash. Can I give you some advice?"

She poured herself another shot, some of which missed the glass and hit the table. "Can I stop you?"

Izzy laughed as he claimed possession of the bottle. "Not a chance. Here's the deal. Asking for stats on personal body counts is extremely uncool. It implies a certain morbid fascination with violent death. Some guys find that to be a turnoff."

"Oh, come on. Isn't everyone fascinated by violent death?" she asked, finally taking just a sip from the glass. Apparently the shot part of the evening was over. Which was a good thing. As it was, he was probably going to have to carry her out of here. "I mean, why else are horror movies so popular?"

"So what are you saying?" Izzy asked. "You'd like me more if you knew for sure that I'd killed people? And if I tell you exactly how many, you'll be unable to keep yourself from pulling me out to the car, tearing off my clothes, and joining me in a rousing chorus of 'She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain'?"

"Of course not." She didn't get the joke. Or maybe she did, and she was just ignoring it. And he was wrong about the shot part of the evening being over, because she tipped her head back and drained her glass. She really did have a lovely throat and neck. Come to think of it, she had a lovely everything.

He couldn't help but wonder if he would find her as enchanting after he cut her off, when she started screaming obscenities at him.

But this time, when she set her glass on the table, she turned it upside down, cutting herself off. How sweet was that?

"So here's the deal," Tracy said. She didn't look or sound drunk, but she had to be. No one could drink that much and not feel it. "I'm going to marry Lyle."

"Now's probably not the time to make that kind of decision," Izzy started, but she waved him off.

"This is not the tequila talking. This is...fact facing. Facing the facts. I'm going to marry Vile." She cracked up. "Vile Lyle, the man-ho."

Izzy stood to return the bottle to the bar and settle up their bill, but she caught his arm.

"Wait, please?"

He waited.

"I need to ask you a favor." She closed her eyes. "Will you please sit back down so I don't have to shout it?"

"Don't tell me," he said. "You want me to be flower girl at the wedding?"

Tracy laughed. "You're funnier when I'm drunk."

"That's what all the girls tell me."

She leaned forward, gesturing for him to do the same. So he leaned forward, too. At this proximity, her eyes were unbelievable. Tomorrow, however, they were going to be unbelievably bloodshot.

"I'm just going to say it," she said. "Okay?"

"Best way to say anything," he agreed, "is to just say it."

"I'm just going to ask," she said.

"Good plan," Izzy said.

She was looking into his eyes, as if she were searching for something. But then she sat back, her head hitting the back of the booth with a thud. "I can't do this." But then she sat forward again. "Do you have paper? Maybe I could write it."

There must've been a pen in the pocket of the olive drab jacket he'd loaned her, because she put it on the table now.

"There's always paper in a bar," he told her. "I'll be right back."

This time she let him leave, and he took the bottle with him, setting it on the bar with a twenty. Sure enough, there were napkins there in a little pile. He took a few back to the table. "Here."

Tracy made a barricade with her hand so he couldn't see what she was writing, like a middle school student taking a test. He sat back down across from her, glancing at his watch. This had been amusing when it first started, but it was quickly becoming old.

She was going to marry Lyle, which meant the odds of Izzy actually getting laid tonight had dipped into negative numbers. Not that the odds had ever been all that strong. Still...

Tracy was finally finished writing, and she folded the napkin in half and then in half again. He stopped her before she attempted to turn it into an origami swan, taking it out of her hands.

"Oh, my God," she said, slumping back, one arm holding on to herself, the other hand covering her eyes, as if she were too embarrassed to look at him.

Izzy unfolded the napkin and...Whoa.

Will you have sex with me?

Her handwriting wasn't helped by the tequila or the porous nature of the napkin, but those were definitely the words she'd written there. And, yup, they were still there when he read them again.

Was she serious?

"Oh, my God," she said again, peeking out at him from under her hand. "You're gay, right? Because I am so bad at this, it would be just like me to ask someone who was-"

"I'm not gay," he said. "I'm just...like..." He laughed, because what the hell? She'd managed to surprise him completely. "You mean, you want to right now?"

"Not in here," she said, as if she actually thought he was about to throw her across the table.

"Yeah, no," Izzy said. "I meant now, like, tonight."

She met his eyes for the briefest of moments, and there it was again. Fear. And hope. "If you don't want to-"

"Wait," Izzy said. "You did not hear me say that. I'm just trying to clarify. And work out the logistics. I've got a roommate at the motel. You do, too."