I crouch in her door, making us eye level as I reach for her seatbelt and buckle it for her. “No worries there, trouble. I’m not planning on killing you, and if I were, they would never find your body.”
Her grin never disappears as she says, “Ah, you never know. It may be me whom she turns in when they find you.”
“Still want to kill me, even though I’ve been keeping you safe?” I adjust her belt, then stand.
“Still want to keep me prisoner, even though I wasn’t hired to kill you?” she counters.
I huff out a breath. “I think we could come up with a compromise.” What I’m not telling her is that there is no way I’m letting her leave until I know whoever hired someone to kill her is dead, no matter how long it takes or how much she hates me.
“Really?” She elongates the word, sounding surprised.
“Are you hungry?” I avoid answering, and she doesn’t push back.
“Whatever.” She shrugs.
“Know any place that’s good around here?” I ask after climbing into the driver’s seat.
“There are a bunch of chain places on Warren Road by the mall.”
* * *
“Let’s talk compromise,”she says, dunking a thick fry into a little tub of ranch. It’s her second, and she’ll probably need a third at this rate.
“I don’t talk business in public.” What I really mean is that she’s going to be pissed, and I don’t want her causing a scene.
“I guess that makes sense. You can’t have anyone hearing that you’re a criminal overlord.”
“I don’t think the people in the back heard you, maybe a little louder next time.”
“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me while I eat? You’re making me self-conscious. It’s been a minute since I had really hot food.” Her expression makes it clear she blames me for that.
“I’m sitting across from you, so what else would I do, ignore you?”
“How about you tell me what else Stabby had on his phone?”
“There wasn’t much, just a text from a woman he was seeing. I had someone speak to her, but she was a dead end. He paid for her time.”
“He was a nasty bastard. I feel like I can still smell his breath sometimes.” She exaggerates a shiver. “How old was the girl? Was she young?”
“I don’t think so. I’m sure Iron would have told me if she were.”
“Iron, is that a name?”
“Yes.” I shouldn’t have let that slip.
“The guy who drives the G-Wagon with the pretty girl?”
“No, forget about them.”
“Why?”
“Because—”
“You said so,” she supplies quickly while pointing a fry at me.
“Even thinking about them is not good for your health. Do you always interrupt people when they speak?”
“Not really, no. You just get on my nerves.”
