“Thought maybe the obvious needed stating.”
“I know I ain’t the brightest star in the sky,” Rusty said. See? Dumb jock card, whipped out and flourished in front of Ace’s face. “But give me some credit. I get what the score is here. Thanks to you guys, I’m up to my ass in this shit whether I want to be or not, so how about you stop busting my balls? Besides, unlike some people, once I start something, I finish it.”
Ace’s hackles sprung upright. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Rusty shrugged the shoulder closest to Ace. Ace swore he could feel the friction even though they weren’t touching. The molecules in the air separating them shifted and grated. “You tell me.”
“I only kissed you all those months ago to prove a point,” he ground out. “Not to start something.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Is this going to be like Moonlighting where all the feisty banter makes you two fall in love and start screwing?” Ozzie interrupted from the back seat.
Ace frowned at him in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry. Moonlighting?”
“You know, that old show from the eighties with Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd?” When Ace gave him a blank stare, Ozzie said, “Fine. Then let me put it to you both straight. I wish the two of you would bone and get it over with because I’m sick and tired of it turning into the Red Wedding anytime you’re together.”
Ace reached up to scratch his eyebrow with his middle finger.
“Oh, real mature.” Ozzie grinned.
“Says the guy wearing the T-shirt printed with If you can read this, my cloaking device is broken.”
“Don’t harsh on my threads, man.” Ozzie looked down at the maroon T-shirt visible beneath his field jacket. “This is some legitimately awesome shiznit.”
“Hey, man.” Rusty looked over his shoulder at Ozzie. “Don’t blame any of this on me. I’ve been game from the start. Hollywood Hair over here”—he hooked a thumb toward Ace—“put the kibosh on things.”
“You know why I did that, damnit!” Ace said. “And stop calling me Hollywood Hair!”
“For the love of Leonard Nimoy!” Ozzie hissed. “Keep your voice down.”
Ace clamped his mouth shut, properly chagrined.
“Hey, check it out.” Rusty pointed out the passenger-side window. “Popov’s at the back door.”
Ace watched Popov glance nervously up and down the alleyway before lifting a hand to knock. The door popped open, and a short, fat, bewhiskered man in an apron ushered him inside.
Activating his throat mic, Ace pushed everything but the mission from his mind and relayed the following: “Elvis is in the building. Stay frosty up there because from back here it looks like it’s go-time.”
Chapter 9
Lou Cox, the head of Grafton’s security detail, pushed open the door to the café and ushered Sonya inside with a hand at the small of her back.
“Hands off,” she warned as she stepped over the threshold. She could take a lot when it came to Grafton and his hulking thugs. But invading her personal space crossed a big, fat line she’d drawn in the sand.
Lou flashed her a gummy smile. “Now, here I thought we was friends. I saw you kept that bookmark I gave you.”
“Because I was tired of creasing the pages of Grafton’s first editions with a paper clip.” One would think working for the planet’s most powerful underworld crime boss would be nothing but thrills and chills. But the truth was, more often than not, Sonya was bored stiff. She’d spent the months in Grafton’s employ diligently making her way through his library to combat the monotony. “And just because I accepted your gift, that doesn’t make us friends. It certainly doesn’t give you the right to touch me.”
Lou lifted his meaty paws in the air in that quintessential guy way that said without words, Backing away from the PMSing female. In her experience, meatheads like him blamed PMS anytime a woman stood up for herself.
She allowed her eyes to adjust from being outside in the bright sunlight. As the interior of the café came into view, she took note of herself and realized she suffered from three physical maladies.
A mile a minute. That’s how fast her heart pounded.
Dizzy. That’s how her head felt.
