“Okay. Cool. Let’s play charades. I’m bored. Someone bring me wine.”
They do.
Of course they do.
They have to bring me anything I want, except anything useful, of course. I am imprisoned by my murderous ex, and I just witnessed another murder two days ago.
I need alcohol.
?
“So, Roberto,” I start, sitting on the floor with my back against the suite door, third glass of wine in hand. Okay, fourth.
“Blink twice if you guys secretly hate each other.”
Roberto doesn’t blink. Bruce, however, closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience.
I grin.
“Alright, new question.” I lift my glass like I’m hosting a talk show. “Which one of them is worse to babysit? Be honest. I can handle the truth.”
Roberto presses his tongue into his cheek, fighting a smile. Bruce exhales like a dying walrus.
“Oh my God, it’s Adrien,” I gasp dramatically, pointing at Roberto. “You hesitated. I saw it.”
More silence. More dying-walrus energy.
“You guys must havewildwork gossip. Come on. You can tell me. I’m basically your inmate friend. A prison bestie.” I swirl my wine. “We’re trauma-bonded now.”
Nothing.
Roberto scratches his beard to hide his smirk. Bruce on the other hand looks like he regrets every life choice that led him here.
I lean closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
“I bet they’re in love with each other. Right? Like toxic brothers-to-lovers vibes?”
That finally gets a reaction. Both of them snap their heads at me with matchingare you insaneexpressions. I cackle. “Thought so.”
I take another sip—mistake. The room tilts.
“I have a new deal for you two,” I announce, raising one finger like a professor.
My words are definitely sliding together.
“If one of you lets me go talk to one of them, I will,” I pause for dramatic effect. “Show you one boob.”
Roberto chokes on his beer. Bruce covers his face with both hands like this is the lowest point of his entire career. I nod proudly.
“That’s a premium offer. I don’t do discounts.” I lean back dramatically. “Fine, two boobs, but that’s literally all I have.”
Bruce actually lets out something between a groan and a laugh, appreciating my little anatomy joke.
They both turn away from me, pretending to focus on absolutely anything else—phone, gun, air molecules. Anything but me.
“You guys are no fun,” I mumble as I get up, wobbling only slightly. “And terrible wingmen. Zero stars.” I pick up the wine bottle like it’s a newborn puppy.
My princess chamber feels like a padded cell at this point, but at least the walls don’t judge me.
