Oh wait.
I’m in the middle of a conversation.
“What was that, Uncle Hop?
“Isaid, did someone get to that fucker before I did?”
“Uh, yeah. Looks like it.”
“Ah,man,” he says, disappointed as a little kid finding out their favorite flavor of ice cream is sold out. I can practically see the poopy-kick.
“Sorry, Hop.”
“Well. Bailey’s gonna be an Olympic swimmer and a world-class sculptor.” He sighs, sounding so very dreamy. “Not a bad consolation.”
I think that’s a lot to expect of a four-year-old, but then again, what the hell do I know? I only just convinced Boone to let me upgrade his wardrobe for this season’s charity balls.
He looks as unfairly hot in thrifted clothes as he does in a custom-fitted suit. Since he fulfilled my fantasy nineties movie makeover moment, I let him take me to bed and do all sorts of untoward things to me.
I’m generous like that.
By the way, do you know how hard it is to get dried cum out of curly hair?
A nightmare, I tell you.
Refocusing on the conversation at hand, I laugh. “Yeah, Hopper. A talented, smart daughter is one hell of a consolation prize.”
“You know what I mean. So, are you joining us?”
“Yeah, for a little bit.”
“Has Boone thought about Rami’s suggestion of going into politics?” he asks, switching gears.
Having a man on the inside of APD is useful, but having another Wildling in the state house would be something else.
“He loves what he does too much right now, but there is some appeal to the idea. Just a guess, but he’ll probably stick with the police department through his mid-thirties and then work his way into politics.”
“A reasonable solution,” Hopper says. He chuckles. “How did I end up with two brilliant kids?”
“I don’t know, Hop. Just lucky, I guess.”
BOONE
I roll into my gorgeous complex, smiling. Hopper hated my living arrangements, but Maverick agreed that the location was fantastic. I may have taken him on romantic midnight walks to the mall to seal the deal and have zero compunction about cheating on that front.
I’d agreed to limit my smoking to our walks, but then Maverick got one of his Elijah Energy cousins to engineer a high-quality, noncarcinogenic tobacco after my favorite blend. Nowthey’re rich all over again and he’s pretty smug about the whole thing.
More importantly, he says my cigarettes still smell magical in the late-night fog.
As for the living arrangements, Hopper went around us and bought out the entire complex, plus the creepy one next door, then paid for one of the Wildlings’ aunts to upgrade both.
I pointed out that I could’ve done all that with the money from my trust, and he laughed long and hard about that.
His response? “I’m allowed to do nice things for my son.”
A sure sign he’s been converted to the Loyal Hitchens school of affectionate manipulation.
I declined to point out that “nice things” usually mean buying someone dinner or a new set of tires, not turning an aging twenty-four-unit complex into a luxury six-unit property, or paying to move the displaced residents into the now super family-friendly modern complex next door.
