“That’s funny coming from you. Crybaby calling me a baby?”
Crybaby rolled her eyes.
“Why do they call you Crybaby anyway?”
“On account of all my tears.” Crybaby set a large bowl on the counter with a dinner plate.
“But you only have the one tattoo?”
“Only one charge.” Crybaby smiled expectantly.
“Oh, fuck.” Noah’s eyes widened as the truth dawned on him.
“Crybaby’s whole face would be fuckin’ covered if she had ink for every man she’s fuckin’ put in the ground,” Junior boasted proudly as he came strolling into the kitchen. He was alone, but he was carrying a pitcher of presumably mimosas.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Noah’s hands were frozen in the dough, and he didn’t want to move.
He’d almost forgotten he was in the company of criminals and murderers, and he had no doubt that Crybaby was capable of everything Junior claimed.
Alistair was probably a killer too. Erasmus totally was, that psycho. Mace, strong maybe. Perhaps even Medina, the fucking bastard.
Junior?
Nah.
“Keep kneading,” Crybaby ordered. “Gotta go for at least ten minutes, okay?”
“Then what?” Noah began again, frantically kneading the dough with fresh zeal.
“Then we stick it in this bowl, put the plate on top, and it’s gotta rest for at least thirty minutes. You’re good to leave it in the fridge until tonight, okay? You can even freeze it to cook later.”
“Okay.” Noah nodded. “Well, let’s do that. I still got a damn show to see tonight, and I’m not missing DJ Quigs for fuckin’ nothing, all right?”
“Whatever.”
“Your little buddy Landon kept askin’ ’bout you,” Junior chimed in. “I thinks he’s got a little crush. Wanted to know how yous was feelin’, how yous sleepin’…”
“What did you tell him?” Noah cringed.
“That you sleeps with Alistair’s balls in your fuckin’ mouth.” Junior scoffed. “What the fuck do yous think I said? I didn’t tells him shit.”
“Where is he now?” Noah withdrew his hands from the dough and held them out in front of him as far away from his body as he could.
“Who?”
“Landon!” Noah stepped to the sink to wash his hands.
Crybaby put the dough in the bowl and placed the plate on top, rolling her eyes hard.
“I don’t fuckin’ know.” Junior shrugged. “I gots the drinks, told him to fuck off, and came to find you two gettin’ your Martha Stewart on!”
“Easy.” Crybaby scowled.
“Whatever! Sorry!”
After drying off his hands and removing the apron, Noah took in the state of his shirt. There was still a little blob of egg to deal with, and he grabbed a dish rag to run under the faucet and dab at it.
“We let this shit rest, and we can roll it out in like thirty minutes,” Crybaby said to Noah. “If you’re not planning to cook it tonight, then we need to freeze it—”
