“You and small print, Jesus Christ. No killing. I conceded to maiming and torture for that sex trafficker in Lima, but no. Killing.”
“Luckily for our deal, I’m not reneging. This isn’t a bomb.”
“Sure it is.”
“That tells me how many bombsyouhave built because I’m making crackers.”
“Like what my ma drags out on the Christmas table on the 25th cracker…?”
“Well, I’m not talking about the ones you pair with cheese, Conor, sheesh.”
“Not explosives?”
“No!” I scowled at his continued suspicion then leaned down to pick up Butthead and shoved the fluff ball at Conor. “I’m making Christmas crackers, dammit. Now, take your foot-fetishist of a dog and let me concentrate.”
He tucked B-head under his arm. For lap dogs, Conor never let them sit on his lap. They were either his sentriesorhe lugged them around like a football. “Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Secret Santa.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is this ‘let’s just throw random ass words at Conor’ day?”
“It can be if you’d like.”
“You’re still eating Halloween candy corn because of me and?—”
“Don’t make out like I didn’t thank you.”
“The least you could do is clue me in! Who’s the Secret Santa with? Troy and Cin?!”
“Actually, your sisters-in-law. Because if you think Troy and Cin are afraid to exchange guns with me for Secret Santa, you’re mistaken.”
He ignored that. “They’re your in-laws too.”
“I’m not claiming them officially. You have no choice.”
“You’re not claiming them but you’re making them a fucking cracker?”
“Not them. One of them. Jesus, you really don’t know how Secret Santa works, huh?”
He gusted out his cheeks. “I thought Santawassecret.”
“Tell me you’re rich…”
“Like you’re not too.”
“Well, I used to do Secret Santa with my dad’s roadies.”
“Explain.”
“What a roadie is?” I taunted.
He flipped me the bird.
“Secret Santa is where you put everyone’s name in a bag, and then you pick someone and you keep it a secret who you’re gifting something to.”
