“Habibi,” Omar says, his voice dripping with love and patience, “don’t you think the fact that Mr. Valentine successfully placed a listening device in Everett’s new tattoo shop is the bigger issue here?”
Fuck squared. Hearing my name in that warm, lilting accent sends ice through my veins. Also, Everett’s been at that same location for eighteen years. How the hell did I miss there was a new tattoo shop?
“Fine, but we’re gonna circle back around to who is the scarier one, and who goes on more missions, okay?”
“Yes, darling. You’re very terrifying. But now is the time to focus.”
With Omar to the left of me and Anders in front of me, my scary motherfucker card is understandably full. But then a third man pops up on my right, and my heart fucking stops. Like, flat line, kill me right now.
I’m a fan of the classics, andReservoir Dogsis up there on my list of all-time favorites. “Stuck In The Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel fires up in my head, and it feels like my body is trying to tell me something.
Watch out for your ears, bud.
“Don’t let Anders get away with saying he’s the scariest one out there,” the man growls in my ear, his New York accent distinct. “That designation belongs to me.”
In my defense, I’ve usually got a better handle on my startle response, but I’m not too proud to say that my hand jerked, spilling room-temperature coffee all over my lap.
The guy with the New York accent snickers. “Works every time.”
Anders narrows his eyes. “You know what, Hop? The next guy you and I take down, we’re gonna do what we do, and then we’re gonna ask him—or her or them—who was scarier.”
Omar cleared his throat. “Habibi.”
“Yeah, Anders. Focus,” this guy Hop says. For a second, I think they’ve forgotten I exist, but then he turns to me, his bright-eyed expression horrifyingly calm. “My husband and I once had a surrogate. Things didn’t go the way we hoped, and that was way bad for the ol’ brain box,” he says, tapping his head.
Anders looks incredibly sad at this reveal, and I don’t know what to do with that information.
“I… I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” he says with a little bounce. “But now you understand why Rami—all of my friends’ kids, really—is so important to me. I call them my niblings, and I love them.”
This means thatHopis Hopper Hughes, renowned oil painter and—allegedly—a real serial killer’s serial killer.
There’s a rumor online that his husband, billionaire Liam Hughes, funds Hopper’s deadly little hobby.
He’s still waiting for a response, so I spit out, “Oh, of course.”
Hughes then smiles like I’ve just given him the best news, and I may never sleep again.
“You’re wise to be afraid of my buddy, Anders,” he says, still smiling. Leaning in, he continues, “But you don’t want to meet the version of me that comes out to play when someone has bad intentions toward my niblings.”
I have never meant something more sincerely than when I respond, “I can promise that my only intention is to stay as far away from Rami as possible.”
Hughes scrunches his nose as he rests his forearm on my shoulder. “Why? Does he stink?”
Omar, by the way, still hasn’t let go of my neck.
In trying to hide the fact that every cell in my body is freaking out, what with all the clear and present danger, I didn’t quite… What?
“What?” I ask, horrified at the tremble in my voice.
“Does. My. Nephew. Stink?”
Hughes looks amused, which…shit cubed, I am so fucked right now.
“Oh, uh…” My brain glitches, then releases. “No. Not at all, Mr. Hughes.”
In fact, Rami smells delicious. Not like a particular fragrance, just a combination of his soap, skincare, and deodorant. And skin.
