I could get another motel room. Different part of town, better soundproofing. Or I could call Boris, see if he’s got a safe house available. Clean, professional, no questions asked.
Going back to the apartment where I found her? Not a chance. I’m not in the habit of revisiting complications. Especially not soft, curvy ones with mascara smudged into my couch cushions.
That couch—pink velvet with rhinestone buttons—looked like something out of a drag queen’s boudoir. Not my fucking taste.
But it was quiet there. Clean. And she—
Stop.
I zip the duffel closed and check my watch. 6:47 AM. Too early to call Boris. Too late to pretend I don’t have a problem.
The problem isn’t just where to sleep. It’s that every time I close my eyes, I see her. Wide hazel eyes, wine-stained lips…
Just then, the bell above the door jingles. I don’t look up.
But my hand drops to my thigh, fingers brushing the weight of the Glock holstered beneath my shirt. Right side. Concealed, but never out of reach.
Footsteps. A pause. Then—
“Jesus, man.” The voice cuts through my thoughts. “You look like you’ve been sleeping in a crackhouse.”
“Close,” I mutter, lifting my eyes now.
Ray Bishop slides into the booth across from me. Older than me by ten years, ex-black ops turned freelance fixer. We ran jobs together back when Vegas was still stitched together by blood money and handshake deals. Before he went soft. Before he married some yoga teacher and started packing lunchboxes instead of heat.
He eyes me like I’m a ghost who forgot to stay dead. “You still staying at the Stardust?”
“No more.”
“That place is a health violation with carpet. I can smell the mold on your coat from here.”
“Don’t push it.”
He smirks and flags down the waitress with two fingers. “Coffee. Black. And throw a couple extra napkins at him before his jacket walks off on its own.”
I say nothing. Just let him talk. That’s always been our rhythm; him filling the space, me measuring the silence.
He leans back, fingers tapping a rhythm against the salt shaker. “Still on that Bratva errand?”
“Still chasing shadows.”
He whistles low. “Gotta be serious if they’ve gotyoudoing the sniffing. Thought you only got called when someone needed a kneecap restructured.”
I don’t answer. He knows better than to push for details.
After a moment, he shrugs. “Got a place. One of my old units. I use it as a crash pad when the wife kicks me out for forgetting preschool pickup. No neighbors, no lease, no cameras. One-bedroom. Clean fridge. You want it?”
I nod once. “How much?”
“Free. Consider it nostalgia tax. And maybe you’ll babysit next time we get desperate.”
I snort. “You’d leave your kid with me?”
“Hell, no. But I like watching you squirm at the idea.”
The waitress drops off our drinks and disappears. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my fingers. The truth is, I don’t have friends. Not really. Just people who owe me. Or survived shit alongside me. Ray is both.
He glances toward the window. “So what’s the deal with your eyes?”
