She shakes her head as if she’s deeply disappointed in me. “If I had my own personal assassin, I’d give him a list of people to kill as long as my arm.”
Assassin.
I’m taken aback by that word. The memory of Chris yelling at me that Kage’s nickname is Reaper surfaces, as does the image of that red-eyed, hooded skeleton with a scythe.
Hands trembling, I down my glass of wine. It’s impossible for me to reconcile the Kage I know—passionate, tender, full of heat and heart—to the man who runs the Russian mafia.
Runs it in his boss’s absence, anyway.
Sloane notices the look on my face. “Babe, you just went white.”
“I’m still trying to adjust to my new normal.”
“Love’s a bitch, which is why I’ll never have anything to do with it.”
“Life has a funny way of making you eat your words, girlfriend.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “There’s not a man on this planet who could make me fall in love with him. Trust me, I’ve got a lot of experience in that department.”
“Oh, I know. I also know your match is out there somewhere. You just haven’t met him yet. But when you do, I’ll be the first to rub it in your face.”
She laughs at me, clearly disbelieving. Digging into her pocket for her cell, she says, “Good luck with that. In the meantime, let me show you this pic of the hottie I met on the way over here.”
She shows me her phone. The screen displays a picture of a grinning, tanned blond guy who looks exactly like a young Brad Pitt, sitting in what appears to be the back seat of a sedan.
“On the way over? What did you do, flag him down on the side of the road?”
“Uber rideshare. He’s taking me to dinner tomorrow night.”
I chuckle, partly in admiration and partly in disbelief. “You don’t even let the bodies get cold before you move on to the next one.”
She turns the camera back so she can see the screen and smiles at it. “I’ve got a number in my head I want to hit so I can write about it in my autobiography. It’ll be a bestseller. People love to live vicariously through books.”
“What does this one do for a living?”
“Who cares? Did you see those dimples? I’d like to jump into those babies and drown.”
“Sloane?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to be you when I grow up.”
She smiles and sends me a wink. “Get in line.”
Just then, Mojo lifts his head from Sloane’s foot and looks toward the dark window over my kitchen sink.
His ears prick.
All the fur on his scruff stands on end.
He lets out a low, rumbling growl and bares his teeth.
30
Nat
Looking at Mojo with her brows lifted, Sloane says, “Oh, no, that’s not freaky at all, doggo. What’s up with you?”
Staring at the window, I mutter, “Good question.”
I could swear I saw a flash of movement outside, but it’s too dark to tell.
I rise from the table and peer out into the yard. Past the small yellow pool of light from the kitchen window that’s illuminating the snow a few feet beyond the house, it’s pitch black.
Someone could be standing there, looking back at me, and I wouldn’t be able to see him.
Gooseflesh crawls up my arms.
I yank the shade down and turn back to Sloane. Mojo is now on his feet, but he’s still staring at the window, growling.
“It’s okay, boy. Good dog.”
He whines, trotting over to me to nuzzle my outstretched hand with his snout. Then he sits down on his haunches beside me and leans against my leg, glancing around in alarm and trembling.
Sloane says, “Since when is he nervous?”
“Since never.”
We share a look. “I’ll lock the front door. You get the back.”
She stares at me like I’ve just suggested we smoke a bowl of crack cocaine and stick needles into our eyeballs. “You don’t lock your doors when you’re alone in the house? Do you want a crazy person to come in and attack you?”
“You can rag on me after we check the locks.”
Mojo following behind me, I walk swiftly through the house to the front door. Sure enough, it’s unlocked—I forgot to do it after Sloane came in. Cursing myself, I throw the dead bolt. Then I make sure all the windows in the living room are locked.
I do the same with the bedroom and the rest of the house, going from room to room, pulling blinds and closing drapes where I find them open.
The dog sticks right by me the entire time.
I can’t tell who’s more worried, him or me.
When I get back to the kitchen, Sloane’s calmly opening another bottle of wine.
“So?”
“Your back door was locked. I checked the garage, too. All good. No crazy people.”
Relieved, I sit at the table and scratch Mojo behind his ears. He rests his snout on my thigh and looks up at me, his furry eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
“Don’t worry, buddy. Mommy has an unloaded shotgun she can wave around and probably scare an intruder away with.”
Sloane pulls the cork from the wine bottle. “And Auntie Sloane has a snub nose .357 magnum in her boot, which is loaded, so you really shouldn’t worry.”
That shocks me. “Since when do you carry guns around in your shoes?”
In the middle of pouring herself another glass of wine, she stops and stares at me. “Since I went on a Mediterranean cruise with a dozen gangsters.”
“But they were supposed to be protecting you!”
She scoffs. “You never know when one of those idiots is going to decide his honor has been insulted and start spraying bullets at everyone in sight. Plus, if someone other than Stavros decided to get handsy, I had to be able to tell him why that wouldn’t be such a good idea in a language he’d understand. The barrel of a gun shoved against a man’s balls gives him a pretty clear explanation.”
She’s amazing, this girl. I freaking love her.
“Where’d you get the gun?”
She starts to pour again, filling her glass, then mine. “I stole it from Stavros.”
“Stole it?”
She makes a face. “It’s not like he’ll notice. The boys had weapons lying all over the place the way people leave out dishes of candy for guests.”
“Wow. That must’ve been some cruise.”
Her smile is small and mysterious. She pulls up a chair beside me and sits. “Someday, I’ll tell you all about it. But right now, I need to hear the dirty details about what you’ve been up to with that beautiful monster, King Kong Kage. And start with the butt sex.”
My cheeks flush. “What makes you think there was butt sex?”
Considering me for a moment in silence, she tilts her head. Her small smile grows wider. “You’ve got that anal afterglow.”
I stare at her for a beat. “That’s not even a thing.”
“It’s totally a thing.”
“You’re making it up! Nobody glows because they had anal sex!”
With a straight face, she says, “Sure they do. It’s from the phosphorescent glands in your sphincter. Why do you think my complexion is so great?”
I look at the ceiling and heave a sigh.