“Scarlett.”
This time I do turn and meet her gaze.
“If there’s one thing I can assure you of, it’s this. I’ve loaded ye down with weapons, but ye have no need of them. I will be right there beside you.”
“And when it’s done?” she asks.
What she means is what will happen to us. But I don’t have that answer for her yet. So I tell her the only thing I can.
“We will walk out of here together,” I assure her. “And you will be safe.”
She nods, and even the excitement over her weapons is gone.
I kneel before her again and help her into her heels, cautiously.
“These will rip out a jugular with one swipe,” I tell her. “So use them carefully.”
“I will,” she promises.
“Pick out anything else you’d like,” I say. “And leave the rest for your friend.”
She examines the rest of the objects in the case. Lipstick peppersprays and hairpin daggers, rings with hidden blades. But she doesn’t take anything else.
“You’re right,” she says, setting the case aside. “The only weapon I need is you.”
Thirty-Eight
Scarlett
When going to war, it’s important to have soldiers who know how to fall in line. Also, good shoes.
Storm is late, like I knew she would be.
But she’s ready to roll, so I forgive her a little. At least until she starts eye-fucking Rory again across the room.
“Lay off it already,” I tell her. “He’s nobody’s puppet.”
“Except for yours.” She smiles sweetly. “I bet you he’d do whatever you told him to. And who says I’m trying to get with him, anyway? Maybe I just like to piss you off.”
“That’s probably more accurate,” I agree. “Did you bring the stuff?”
She tosses a large suitcase onto the hotel bed and opens it up.
“Pick your flavor.” She gestures over the rainbow of wigs and disguises. “We got cherry, vanilla, black licorice, chocolate, even an assortment of bubblegum if you feel frisky.”
I grab a short blonde wig and a brown one too, holding them up to examine them. Rory’s watching me now, waiting to see what I pick.
“Should I be Daisy or Jordan?” I ask.
“You should be Scarlett,” he whispers in my ear.
And then he reaches for a chin length hot pink wig instead, dangling it between his fingers as he hands it to me.
“And wear this one.”
The heat radiating off him from behind digs into my back. I make a mental note to give Storm an IOU for the wig later on.
“Take these too,” Storm instructs, handing me a small case. “They’ll really pop with that pink.”
