What am I going on about?
She wouldn’t have fucked me—and six times at that—if she knew I was a Holy Hunter. Much less, ordered me breakfast.
I plant my naked ass on a sofa worth more than my Woody and rub my palms down my face. I’ve lost control—of myself, of this mission, of her.
Although my nerves are shot and my stomach snarled, I devour the banquet, needing the calories, if only to fuel my misfiring brain and get it to think clearly.
How do I save Quinn without dooming Electra?
As I shovel in bite after bite, possibilities play out in my head. Most of them involve me torturing some lowly Holy Hunter until they confess where Trenton is keeping Quinn. Except the lowest rungs in the organization’s ladder don’t have that sort of clearance.
I doubt even Lara has that sort of clearance.
I cut through the crisp, layered avocado toast, then spear a huge bite with my fork. The flavors hit my tongue at the same time as an idea hits my brain. And that idea isn’t to visit every tower in the Holy Hunter’s possession.
No, my idea is so much better.
However, my idea needs a cell phone with a viable battery.
I call the reception and ask for a charging cable, only to be told the clock on the nightstand doubles as a charging dock. I stick my phone on the base as I jump into a hot shower, working the bergamot soap into a thick lather.
I’d like to say I’m beyond stealing, but the toiletries smell too damn good to be left behind. Besides, they’d just be thrown out when the room is serviced. So I toss them inside my bag, along with the disposable toothbrush and a comb that manages to sail through my hair that’s one inch away from being a manbun.
Once I’m dressed, I seize my phone, which has gained a whole seven percent.
Memory has me pounding Hudson’s phone number and raising the phone to my ear. My call goes to voicemail. I don’t leave a message. I call again. And again. Until I erode my stepbrother’s patience and he finally picks up.
“Hud, are you busy?” I ask.
“Don’t use my fucking name,” he hisses, before adding, “I’m always busy. What do you want, Cook?”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Hire a shrink.”
I grab my mug of now-tepid coffee and take a swallow. “A shrink can’t help me with what I need to discuss. Only you?—”
“If it’s about Fox?—”
“It’s not.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“The plan.”
A pause. “What about the plan?”
I down my mug, then zip up my bag and shoulder it on the way to the door. “Can you meet me today or not?”
“I have some time this afternoon. Let me loop in Messiah and get you another check-in location.”
“No. I want to meet just us,” I say.
Hudson remains silent for so long that I end up checking my phone to see if the call dropped. It hasn’t.
“Giving Fox your package didn’t make me your bitch,” my stepbrother says, just as I reach the valet to ask for my vehicle.
“As I said, this isn’t about Foxora delivery.”
