The man lifts his gaze back to the TV and shrugs. “Someone else will take Massio’s place.”
“Or law enforcement could do their jobs right and not take bribes so we can have some justice for once in the hundred years the city’s been under the control of one criminal or the other.”
“You’ll never have justice.”
“Fine. How about a police department that people can rely on when one of us tangles with someone from Crossbow’s crew? Can we have that?”
“I’m sure you could.”
Awkward silence halts the otherwise good conversation we were having.
I twist my earring. “Order supplies online.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing digital.”
“Is it because it can be tracked?” I ask. Did I not just say I need to stay out of his business? Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? Didn’t it? Gawd.
The man doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. He’s giving me that scary look again, trapping me in his gaze. It’s a warning.
My phone rings in his pocket.
I startle, my shoulders straightening instantly.
He ignores it. “There’s a grab-and-go kiosk across the street. Let’s get what we need for the next few days.”
My phone keeps ringing. “Aren’t you going to let me answer that?”
“No.”
“Okay, then you answer it.”
“No.”
“Mute it, then.”
“It’ll go to voicemail.”
“The voicemail is full.” I run a hand through my hair. “I have bills I can’t pay, and they keep calling.”
Silence falls. I didn’t mean to tell him I’m broke, but I can’t take it back. I clear my throat. “That’s probably the hospital calling to ask if I can come in. I need to work to pay said bills. Divorce is expensive.”
“I can help you with that.”
“How?”
“I told you I’ll pay you for the sandwich. I’ll pay for supplies, and I’ll double whatever you’d have made if you went to work.”
“What about when I have to show up at my hair salon on Tuesday? You’re going to pay me to stay at home and cancel my appointments? And if so, who will replace the income from my long-term clients when I call out and they think I’m no longer reliable? There are many other hairstylists.”
“Good point. They’re not going there just for the hair. There’s only one Dina, and they want you. If they’re coming for you, they’ll forgive you for not showing up for one day.”
I open my mouth, close it. I feel some sort of heat in my cheeks. Am I blushing? No way. I’m probably entering perimenopause and this is a hot flash.
“Tell them you underwent surgery. The recovery time is as long as I suspect I’ll need.”
“How long is that?”
“A few days. Maybe a week. If you get me good supplies, I can shorten the length of recovery.”
