The front door clicked open.
Malachai stopped in the doorway. He looked at the broken glass, the wine, the cologne, then at me wearing his boots.
“Are the Russians dead yet?”
“No.”
I picked up another bottle. Whiskey. Reared my arm back and smashed it against the floor.
“Are the Russians dead yet?”
“No.”
Another bottle. Gin. Smash.
“Are. The. Russians. Dead. Yet?”
“No.”
I reached for the last one—his favorite scotch.
He didn’t move to stop me.
“Can I have my phone?”
“No.”
Smash.
Scotch soaked into the rug. The room smelled like a bar fight and a funeral.
I grabbed another bottle.
“I think I’ve been real patient with you, Malachai.”
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“But you’ve been lying.”
“I’ve been protecting you. That’s not me ly—”
“Don’t.” I pointed the neck of the bottle at him. “Don’t you dare say protecting. You’re not protecting me. You’re trapping me. There’s a difference.”
He didn’t answer.
I raised the bottle.
“Indigo.”
I didn’t lower it.
A voice came from the doorway. “Oh girl, why the fuck are you in a thong and boots? You okay?”
I froze.
Maya stood there grinning, standing just behind Malachai. She took in the broken glass, the wine-soaked rug, and me in a thong and his boots.
Wearing a beige short set with a sleeveless sweatshirt on top, hair in two long braids, and Converse on her feet.
