“Your imaginary dead husband has a point.”
“I like to think so.”
Turning to me, she thins her lips and examines me up and down. “But…you’re not wearingthatare you?”
I shift uncomfortably in the khakis I had to cinch around my waist with a kid’s belt and the small UT polo that looks like a windsock on me. I didn’t bother tucking it in today. “I was planning on it.”
“Maybe go in a different direction.”
“Maybe mind your own business,” I say, stealing a cherry tomato from her bowl. “And what the hell? How is this supposed to be encouragement?”
She bats my hand away, but not before I steal another perfect little tomato. “I don’t know, is there a reason why you’re dressed like Rick Moranis, circa 1989?”
My mouth drops open, and I add the flair of placing my hand on my chest. “You wound me, Parker.”
She raises her brow and shakes her head. “You wound yourself in that outfit. Nobody wants to fuck a man walking around in literal sack cloth. Did you see what his date was wearing?”
I make some kind ofpfftsound, like Bill the Cat, and snatch a baby carrot to dip into the hummus, which is…ohmyfuckinggod so good. Shaking my head, I tell her the truth. “I would never be able to pull that off.”
Taking her hummus back, she says, “I’m not saying you have to wear that exact outfit, but…you could take a few cues from it. Maybe find some version of it you’re comfortable with? And maybe do something with your beard?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Well, if you ask nicely, I might have a clue.” Her hopeful look is…kind of frightening actually.
“I think tonight I should just try to be myself, and not make any big moves until I get a better idea of the situation.”
“Okay, fine, but you’re coming to my place this Saturday, and we’re going to listen to Sword and Scale while putting together an outfit for you.”
I huff out a breath, then nod. True crime and fashion; I can do this.
“Excellent! Tell you what—keep your eyes peeled for great looks around campus, and come dressed as closely as you can to your favorite one. We can work from there.”
“Okay,” I say, fairly sure I’m going to live to regret this.
But first, I have to make it through tonight.
7
Everett
“So where are we at with the guy in Westlake?” DB asks, looking at the screen on the wall. He, Thane, and I are in the Portal to Nowhere, and Odd and Anders are webcammed in, though the walls behind them are distinctly…cave-like. Anders, with the bright tattoos, is on the left, and Odd, with the black-and-gray geometric tattoos, is on the right.
Odd takes the question. “I got the kid, who was so traumatized he didn’t put up a fight or even say a word when I broke into the room. He was from Dallas, not the border camps. I suspect he was running from abuse and ran right into the traffickers, so we’ll arrange something different for him. In the meantime, Hedy’s doing her thing with the Wonder Twins, and we’re trying to find safe places for all of the families. We’re trying to avoid an extraction team, but we’re not letting those kids be taken from their parents again.”
Thane, standing next to me, gestures to the screen. “I thought y’all were the Wonder Twins?”
The brothers look at each other and then back at Thane, shaking their heads. I don’t ask what the Bash Brothers get up to in their non-murder time because I have a feeling I don’t want to know, especially if it involves a cave. DB’s narrowed expression confirms it for me.
“Okay, then—what about the Westlake asshole?” DB asks, getting the conversation back on track.
That one’s mine. “Apparently, losing his favorite toy was really hard on him, so he’s booked some sort of tour of Europe for the next several weeks. He’s a five-star douche canoe, and I can’t wait for him to get back home.”
“Are we assuming he’s waiting to see if there’s any heat on him?”
“Yep.”
“Well, if he’s spending several weeks in Europe, especially in the Eastern Bloc countries, let’s make sure he doesn’t bring someone home with him to replace his lost toy.”
