Ricardo takes a deep breath. “I’m not gay.”
“Neither am I,” I say, “and neither is Seven, for that matter, but he’d suck it if I asked him. Wouldn’t you, Seven?”
“Absolutely,” Seven says. “Anything you ask.”
Lucky for Seven, I respect him enough not to ever ask that of him. I respect his personal boundaries, because he commands it. He doesn’t just demand it, like some whiny brat with a big mouth that needs something shoved in it. He carries himself like someone to respect. But still, he’d do it if I ever asked him to, because I command respect, too.
This guy, though, he’s got balls, but they might be too big if instead of getting on his knees and saying ‘yes, please’ he’s hesitating like a little bitch.
“Come in,” I tell the guy. “Leave us, Seven.”
Seven nods before walking off. Ricardo carefully steps into the library, his approach cautious, his gaze flickering all around. He pauses, maybe two feet in front of me, unsure of what to do.
“Tell me something,” I say, too exhausted to prolong this, as much as frazzling him amuses me. “Did you come because your boss has another grievance he wants to air? Or are you looking for a new job, considering what happened to your boss’s club, you know, since people went bang-bang-bang?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“You guess? Do you? Because I don’t. I don’t guess. Either you do or you don’t. Either you’re looking for a job or you’re not. If you don’t understand your own motivations enough to not have to take a fucking guess, then we’ve got a problem.”
He stares at me. “I’m sure.”
“Well, then.” I prop my feet up on the corner of the table, lacing my hands together at the back of my head. “Tell me about yourself, Ricky.”
He starts babbling. I don’t know. I’m not paying the words any attention. I really don’t give a shit what the guy’s saying, don’t care how he’s framing himself, but his body language tells me everything. When you spend your life tiptoeing around psychopaths, you learn to listen to what’s going unspoken. He blinks too much, fidgeting, tinkering with the watch on his wrist, playing with the clasp. Not a Rolex, I notice, not that it makes a difference in this situation, but it means he’s either tasteless or broke as fuck, and either way, it sucks for him. Whatever he’s saying, he’s lying. Everything about him screams deception.
Tapping echoes through the library just when I’m about to call him out on it. Seven stands there, yet again.
“I thought I told you to leave us,” I say loudly, my voice cutting off Ricardo’s blubbering.
“You did,” Seven says, “but somebody’s here.”
“There are quite a few people here,” I say. “Me, you, Ricky… Pretty Boy is upstairs with Firecracker… and the rest of the guys, you know, Two through Six and Nine, they’re all around, but that doesn’t mean you should interrupt me when I’m in the middle of something.”
“I mean somebody else.”
“Who?”
“A woman,” Seven says. “Young, brunette… I think it might be the one you were looking for.”
“She’s here?”
Seven nods. “She’s outside.”
“Why haven’t you let her in?”
“Because she hasn’t knocked,” he says. “She’s kind of just lurking, you know, looking around.”
“Huh.” Dropping my feet down again, I stand up, strolling toward the doorway. I slap Ricardo on the shoulder, squeezing, before pushing him toward my chair. “Have a seat, I’ll be back.”
Seven eyes the guy warily before following me into the hall. “I don’t trust that guy, boss.”
“You probably shouldn’t,” I say, turning to him. “Where’d you last see her?”
“She was out front,” he says. “Saw her lingering near the gate.”
“Good.” I motion toward the library. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I’m going to go check on our other guest.”
“Yes, boss.”
Seven goes to the library as I make my way to the back of the house, opting to go out that way and make my way around. The air is frigid, dusk growing close. Sunset. My footsteps are silent, my combat boots squishing into the damp earth, the snow finally melting. I creep along the side of the house, pausing when I hit the front corner. I zero in on her, catching subtle movement in the bushes. She’s squatting down beneath the living room window, completely cloaked in black—sweats, hoodie, and sneakers.
She’s watching through the window, watching my men as they do what they do, so consumed by whatever she sees inside that she doesn’t sense me approaching. I pause behind her, watching her as she watches them.
It’s like the Inception of fucking spying here.
I try to wait her out, but she proves to be patient. Minutes tick away. Tick. Tick. Tick. As much as I’d love to stand here forever, it’s getting dark, and it’s too damn cold for this nonsense.
“Are you going to come inside or what?”
As soon as my voice rings out, she tries to turn, caught off guard, but she loses her balance, planting right into the bushes on her ass. “Shit.”
I laugh as she scrambles to get to her feet. She quickly moves away from the window, away from the house, keeping some distance between us. The woman is sly, without a doubt... so sly Seven’s the only one who noticed her, the rest of my men oblivious, but still, she’s a bit wet behind the ears.
Eyeing me warily, she shoves her hands in her hoodie pocket and says nothing, not answering my question, like maybe she doesn’t have a response for it.
“Well?”
Still no answer.
Just a blank stare.
“Fine.” I turn to leave. “Stay out here.”
I only make it a few steps before her quiet voice says, “You’ve got a white picket fence.”
That stalls me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the words. Maybe it’s her tone. Something about it makes me turn back around. She’s still just standing there, eyes past me, gaze trailing the fence along the property.
“What did you expect, barbed wire?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, looking at me again. “Just not a picket fence.”
She seems almost in awe about it, but it’s a fence. Just a fucking fence. I get the feeling, at the moment, that it means something more to her. But it’s too cold for me to riddle that out, too cold to be metaphorical.
“Come on.” I don’t ask this time. “Come inside with me.”
I head for the front door. She hesitates, eyes trailing me, before she finally follows without argument. The moment I open the door, the noise inside grows quiet, the little party in the living room coming to an abrupt halt as my men are on guard. Intruders.
“Put your dicks away, fellas,” I say when guns are drawn, aimed my way in alarm. The ‘no bullets’ rule doesn’t apply to them, either, but times like this I think it ought to.
They lower them so fast it’s damn near comical, eyes bugging out like it’s the fucking Looney Tunes.
A haze of smoke lingers in the room, the woodsy, musky scent strong in the air. Half-empty bottles of liquor are scattered over the coffee table. Strolling over, I snatch up a bottle of rum, taking a swig straight from it before pointing to Scarlet.
“Fellas, this is Scarlet. Scarlet, this is Two through Six, and Nine.”
She blinks a few times but says nothing as the men mumble awkward greetings, like the motherfuckers have never met a woman before.
I walk back out, still clutching the bottle, and Scarlet follows me into the hallway. “You numbered them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I imagine the same reason the Cat in the Hat called his little friends Thing One and Thing Two.”
“Which is why?”
I shrug. “Who knows? It sounded good.”
“Oh-kay.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “But what happened to One? Or, like, Seven?”
I stall in front of Seven, who lurks in front of the library, perking up at the sound of his name.