The Irish are good for a laugh, but small doses are best. Most of their shit is dealt with in-house, so I’ve never worked for them directly. I know Boris hates them, and for whatever reason he’s been sniffing around Cain the past few months.
“What’d your dad do?” I ask.
“What’s he not done?” Ian says, and I honestly don’t think he’s talked to his father lately. “What do you say about putting in a good word for me?”
“Are you a good shot?”
“Am I a good shot?” He snorts, with the same cocky attitude all the Irish are known for. “Yeah, I’m fucking good.”
“He’s never worked a job before,” Tristan says.
“As a triggerman or anything else,” Tyler mutters before taking a sip of his beer.
The way Ian’s green hazel eyes narrow on the doctor tells me everything I need to know about how he’d love a chance to fuck him.
“Then you’ll have to prove yourself,” I tell Ian.
“So showing up right when you passed out does nothing.”
“Maybe if you had been the one who killed the Spider.”
Ian laughs, freely and loudly. But across the room, in the tiny open kitchen, Tristan is dead still.
Guess it’s too early to talk so glibly about killing one of the world’s most deadly assassins.
“All right, so what if I help you kill the next one?” Ianoffers.
“It might work,” I admit. “If you’re a decent shot.”
Ian doesn’t have to reply for me to know his opinion regarding his skill. It’s only because he’s got pretty eyes and an Irish lilt that his smugness comes across as charming.
Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you please take him away now?”
Tyler holds up his hands. “Is the kid going to start paying me rent? It’s been a fucking week, Tris.”
I knew time had passed, but it’s like someone’s dropped me in the middle of a calendar.
“Help me get a job, and I’ll start paying rent,” Ian says.
“Go and find one,” Tyler argues back. “Literally. Anywhere.”
“I have goals, Ty,” Ian replies with a familiarity that has Tyler clenching his jaw.
“Your goals currently include crashing at my place for however long?”
“It’s not like you even notice. All you do is work and sleep.”
There’s a knock on the door and all three men tense.
Tristan inches toward the door, his hand on the gun in his waistband, when he looks through the peephole.
“How the fuck do you know about this place?” Tristan asks Adeline.
She crosses her arms over a tight fighting shirt, her ass amazing in a pair of jeans. Not a hint of frizz in her long, dark hair. I brush my own hair back, noticing several tangles. Where did Jane put that brush?
“I found you days ago,” Adeline tells Tristan. “You need a better safe house.”
“Luis shouldn’t have?—”
