Born to Be Badger (Honey Badger Chronicles #5)(6)

“I don’t need your help.”

“Either I go or I get Mads. And when she hears you’re doing something dangerous alone so close to the championships . . .”

Tock gripped the steering wheel with both hands and began taking in breaths through her nose and blowing them out through her mouth.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It’s a calming technique that will hopefully prevent me from beating you to death.”

What was disturbing was how calmly she made that statement. Only her gripping hands and red knuckles told him how pissed she was at the moment.

“I’m just trying to—”

“Stop saying you’re trying to help. You’re just being a pain in the ass.”

Shay didn’t say anything. He simply stared at her until she turned her head, her eyes going wide.

“Are you about to cry?” she asked.

“No.” And he wasn’t. “But my feelings are hurt.”

“Cats don’t have feelings.”

“Yes, we do. And you’ve hurt mine. But I’ve made a commitment—I’m going with you. Despite your cruel words. That were so hurtful to me.”

She began to say something, stopped, let out a long sigh, and finally pulled away from the curb.

When they hit a stoplight, he held the bag of beef patties under her nose.

“Want one?” he asked.

The way she glared at him. Glared at him so hard. They sat there long after the light had turned green. They didn’t move until the drivers behind them began to lean on their horns and yell curses out their windows.

That glare . . . he honestly didn’t know if he should laugh or find a way to hide under the wheel well like a confused kitten.

He was relieved he didn’t have to make the decision one way or the other when she finally began to drive the car forward and held her right hand out so he could put a patty in her palm.

*

Tracey Rutowski swung out the doors of the Gucci store on Old Bond Street. It was early morning and she had appointments all day at the Royal Academy of Arts in the hopes of finding the next Michelangelo or Monet. Or, even better, the next Mapplethorpe or Basquiat. But first she had to check out a nearby empty storefront to see if it would work for her newest gallery.

She stopped at the black SUV waiting for her and handed over the Gucci-branded shopping bag that held her new black purse. It would go into her closet with all her other black purses and backpacks and clutches; black jeans; and black T-shirts and sweaters. It was her signature style. Black.

The feline standing by the driver’s-side door took the bag, his nose twitching when he looked at it.

“What?”

“More shit you won’t do anything with but spend a lot of money on?” he replied before rudely tossing it into the open car door.

“You’re always so negative.”

“I’m a realist. And you’re a hoarder.”

“I am not a hoarder.” She glanced away before adding, “I just like pretty things. Just be glad I purchased it and I’m not running down the street with Gucci security chasing behind me.”

“You mean like last time?”

“That was not Gucci . . . that was Harry Winston and I was just keeping my skills on point. Now stay here,” she continued. “I just have to go check a building about a block away. After that we’ll be—”

“Really?” he cut in . . . with that tone. “You have to do this right now?”

Neil Jeffers had been her bodyguard, driver, assistant, and friend since they’d met all those years ago when they were both way too young to be doing what they were doing. But it had bonded them. Like war buddies, except Neil was still a feline; which meant he was “dick-y” on principle. Just to irritate her.

“Patrice wants me to take a look. It’ll take five min—”

“Twenty. It’ll take twenty minutes. And I thought Patrice was on vacation.”

“She is, but she never stops working. We both know that. And once I get this done, we can go.” When he rolled his eyes, “What? What?”

“Nothing. Go, go. Keep everyone waiting, like no one has anything better to do but wait for you.”

“Why the feline sarcasm?”

“There’s no sarcasm. We all just looooooove waiting on you. It’s the most amazing part of our day.”

“Sarcasm,” she accused before turning away from him and heading down the street until she reached the empty storefront her Realtor, Patrice, had texted her about.

Patrice often found Tracey the best locations for her galleries, no matter what country they were in. They’d worked together since the ’90s, when Patrice had located that burnt-out building in the Bronx for Tracey’s first show of local young artists. Most of them were people of color with strong political opinions that they clearly expressed in their work. The event was a huge success, bringing in some very wealthy, pretentious art investors and critics as well as people Tracey actually wanted to impress. But then the NYPD showed up and it turned into a horrible riot . . .

Okay. Maybe she caused the riot. But the cops had made her mad.

In the end, though, that little felony on her record didn’t stop her career. In fact, over the last three decades, she’d gone from edgy, rebel art procurer to ruling establishment art procurer.