He nodded once, moving his tongue slowly over hisbottom lip. His hand lifted, landing along my jaw. His fingertips dug into myhair and his palm curved around my face, holding me tightly. His head dipped,and I knew this was the moment. He was going to kiss me. He was finally goingto kiss me!
“Are we going to do this or what?”
Wrong.
This was the moment I was finally going to murderAtticus.
“Yeah,” Sayer called back. “Yeah, we’re going to dothis.
An hour later, Gus had dropped us off two blocks awayand we were creeping toward a four-story Victorian row house in Georgetown.Atticus let out a low whistle.
“Quite the piece of real estate,” he mumbled.
Sayer ducked, so his head was lower than the hedges inthe back yard. “Jealous?”
Atticus shot him a look. “Nah. It’s only a matter oftime, Wesley. Only I’ll get it a hell of a lot sooner than fucking Fat Jack.And I’ll know better than to get greedy and piss it away.”
Childhood had made my loyalties stronger than Irealized, because I added, “We don’t know anything yet. We’re just supposed tolook around. There might not be anything.”
Sayer and Atticus stayed quiet. Their silence saidenough though. Nobody but me thought Fat Jack was innocent. Thepakhanwanted usto take a look around his house while he was at the party. They wanted evidencebefore they took action. They wanted us to come up with a reason for hissuspicious behavior.
I felt sick.
“We’ll start in the basement,” Atticus whispered as heclipped the lock on the back gate. Somewhere in the neighborhood, Gus used hiscomputer magic to shut off the security cameras posted around the house.
“We’ll start upstairs and meet you in the middle,”Sayer confirmed.
And that’s what we did. The boys let me pick the lockon the back door since I had the gentlest touch, and we separated. Frankie withAtticus. I stayed with Sayer.
Up we went, creeping up three flights of stairs to themaster bedroom on the top floor. My nose wrinkled at Fat Jack’s sense of décor.Okay, it wasn’t like my two-bedroom apartment with my dad was anything to bragabout. But I never understood why men with money always went for the black silksheets.
“I should have guessed,” I told Sayer. He raised hiseyebrows, having no idea what I was talking about. “A mirror above the bed.Because why wouldn’t a man that looks like Fat Jack want to watch himself getnasty?”
Sayer chuckled darkly. “I don’t know, Six, maybe it’sfor educational purposes. Maybe he’s trying to improve his game.”
I wrinkled my nose, struggling not to gag. Fat Jackwas three hundred pounds of bubbling anger with a vodka-reddened nose and deep-setdull eyes. He had no soul, no sympathy, no reason to look out for anybody buthimself. If he could find girls willing to come back here with him, their needswere the last thing he was concerned about in that bed.
“I’ve never understood the silk sheets though,” Iwhispered as we made our way around the room, looking for clues and evidenceand anything damning. “Aren’t they slippery? I’m picturing Fat Jack like agreased pig in that bed.” I shook my head quickly, trying to rid myself of themental image. “Scratch that. I’m not picturing Fat Jack at all. Ick.”
I felt Sayer’s gaze on me from across the room.“You’ve never, you know, messed around on silk sheets before?”
Giving him my back, I picked up the edge of a pictureframe, my hidden fingers curled under the sleeves of my cardigan. I’d broughtit in case I got cold tonight, but it doubled for fingerprint protection incase of last minute jobs.
My cheeks flamed red and I wanted to jump off thebalcony just off Fat Jack’s room. Was Sayer serious? Had I ever messed aroundon silk sheets? The real question was, had I ever messed around at all? No. Theanswer was definitely no. And it was all his fault.
Not that I felt like a huge chunk of my life wasmissing because nobody had ever brought me back to their sleazy den of iniquityand slid me around on their slippery bed while they watched their technique inthe mirror overhead. But, still. It was the principle of the thing.
Instead of saying any of that to him though, I lied.Because that’s what I did. I was a liar that lied for a living, to stay alive,to pay off some stupid debt to the syndicate. “That’s what I’m saying,” I toldhim. “I think they’re more work than they’re worth. Not to mention tacky.”
Sayer’s voice was devoid of his previous humor when hesaid. “I didn’t realize you had so many opinions about silk sheets.”
I glanced at him over my shoulder as I moved to riflethrough some papers on a desk in the corner. “It’s not like I’m highmaintenance about the whole thing, I just draw the line at self-indulgedassholes. That’s all.” Oh my God. What was I even saying? I blamed Sayer. Heshouldn’t have made it sound like he had so much experience on silk sheets. Itwas annoying. And gross. And turned the normal female inside me into agreen-eyed jealousy monster.
“Those are some high standards, Six.”
I spun around, glaring at him across the room. He hadmoved parallel with me, near a dresser in the corner. The room was crowded withour unsaid words and frustrated feelings and the constant push and pull. Ormaybe that was just me.
“Do I need high standards?” I asked, knowing it wouldpiss him off.
