My eyes cut back to him, mouth falling open.
I pitch the nearest blueberry at him.
“Kiddin’,” he says, blocking it. “I’ve never?—”
“Hooked up in the basement at Type before?” I finish.
He points at me. “Exactly. That was new.”
“Felt vintage,” I say.
“Box-set worthy,” he replies.
Our smiles chase each other.
I lift the glass, hiding the grin, when?—
“Sonny, we got company. Behind you.”
I pause, glass halfway up. “What?”
He jerks his chin past my shoulder.
I turn.
It’s him.
Same beady, judgmental glare. Same pigeon,
now perched on the ledge
like he’s about to deliver the hit.
“Oh, I know him.”
Andrew raises a brow,
eyes bouncing between me and the pigeon.
“You… know that pigeon?”
“Yeah,” I tip my champagne at the bird. “Showed up when it took you a full twenty-four hours to text me. Sat on my bench in Washington Square, talons on my thigh like—‘you good, sweetheart?’and... I dunno—I might’ve thrown out somethin’ vague like,‘take care of it.’”
My gaze swings to him.
“Swear, thought I was venting.
“Guess I greenlit a hit.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow at the pigeon.“Take care of it?Yeah, sounds real vague, Sonny.” He tips his head, giving the pigeon a once-over. “Bird’s over there twitchin' to float my body down the East River.”
The bird blinks, watching.
Andrew leans in, side-eyeing the pigeon.
“Guy got a name, or what?”
I lift my glass. “Who, Two-winged Tony?”
