“Nothing.” But I still hear tension in his voice and his hand is pressing harder against my back.
“Bastian. What is it?”
“There’s a guy at the bar. He’s been staring at you since we walked in.”
“Down, boy,” I murmur, squeezing his arm. “We’re here for Frank, remember? Not to start a bar fight with every creep who stares too long.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to ignore it.”
He makes a sound that suggests ignoring it is physically painful, but he keeps moving. His muscles remain coiled under my fingers, though, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. Through that connection, I can practically see the violent fantasies running through his head.
Broken bottle jabbed into the creep’s eye socket.
See how many times he can smash a skull against a stripper pole until it cracks like a watermelon.
A stiletto in the eardrum would get the job done…
But even with my overactive imagination, I’d bet I’m barely scratching the surface of what he’d like to do.
Fortunately, we manage to reach the corner booth without bloodshed. Frank is waiting. Even without sight, I can feel howwronghe is. All this frantic, nervous energy radiating off him in waves. His breath catches wetly when Bastian slides into the booth across from him.
“Jesus Christ,” Frank breathes. “You actually came.”
“You called,” Bastian replies. “I answered.”
“I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you’d—” He breaks off, and I hear the gulp of him taking a swig of beer. The bottle clinks against his teeth. His hands must be shaking badly.
“You look like shit,” Bastian observes.
“Yeah, well. Working for your brother will do that to a guy.”
I settle down next to Bastian with Excalibur propped against my leg. Frank’s attention turns to me.
“She’s with me,” Bastian supplies before Frank can ask.
“I can see that.” Frank’s seat creaks as he leans forward. “But why the hell would you bring herhere? Tothis?”
“Because I’m not decoration,” I answer before Bastian can. “I’m here to make sure you don’t waste our time with bullshit.”
Frank makes a strangled noise that is immediately washed out by Megan Thee Stallion informing us about her body’s various curved surfaces. “Fair enough.”
“Start talking,” Bastian barks. “We can’t afford to waste time.”
“Where to begin, though?” he wheezes.
“I’d suggest the beginning,” I say acidly.
“Right. The beginning. Christ, that feels like a lifetime ago.”
Bastian clicks his tongue. “Get to the point, Frank.”
“I am, I swear. So, the beginning: Your brother came to my house,” he explains. “Four years ago. Right when Olympus was getting off the ground.”
I feel Bastian go still beside me.
“Late one night,” Frank continues, “I’m in my kitchen, having a beer, watching the game. Doorbell rings. I open it, and there he is. Walks right past Bruno—my Rottweiler, hundred and twenty pounds and a bad motherfucker more often than not—but hewalks right past ‘im like the dog was a fucking houseplant. Bruno just sat there. Whimpering, tail tucked between his legs. I’ve never seen that before nor since, man. Never, never.”
