Page 250 of Remy

An elderly gentleman stands at the basins, washing his hands.

I take an educated guess that Father Time isn’t the culprit and ignore him as he walks from the bathroom. Once the door shuts behind him I round the cubicles to find a guy a few inches shorter than me at the urinals, pulling up his fly.

A guy I recognize from his background check.

He hums a cheerful tune as he walks past without looking my way, then washes up.

“Hugo,” I drawl in greeting.

He stiffens, the jovial hum cut short. He glances at me over his shoulder and slowly wrenches the tap. “Yeah?”

I offer a welcoming smile and casually stroll toward him. “We haven’t met.” I offer a hand. “I’m Remy Costa.”

He turns to me, glancing from my face to my hand, then back again as he wipes his wet palms on his suit pants. “Hey.” He takes my offering and squeezes my fingers—hard—as if trying to win an ego contest.

I can’t help huffing a laugh.

First he threatens Ollie. Then he’s humming. Now the disrespectful handshake.

I tighten my grip and step forward, slamming my free arm across his collarbone, adding pressure to force him scrambling backward.

“Wait. Stop. Hold up.” He wrenches his hand free and grabs at my wrist. “What are you doing?”

“I heard we’ve got something in common.” I slam him into the wall. “Ollie,” I state simply. “It seems we both have a habit of upsetting her. But I’m told you chose to do it on purpose.”

“We were just talking.” He glares. “I didn’t even touch her.”

Didn’t. Even. Touch. Her.

I cluck my tongue at his misplaced confidence. “Do you know who I am, Hugo?”

He’s defiantly silent for long seconds. Then finally, he nods. “You’re Remy Costa.”

“And do you know what I am?”

He remains quiet, his nostrils flaring.

He knows.

“I’m glad you’re familiar.” I smile. “But do you want to know what’s more important than my name, or even my reputation, at this point?”

His jaw hardens.

“It’s my mental state, Hugo. And right now, I can feel myself nosediving toward horrifically violent psychosis. You see, I don’t like when lowlife pieces of shit mess with those I care about.” I inch closer. “And I assure you, I care about nobody more than Ollie.”

“We’ve got history.” He pushes at my arm. “I was only relaying a message.”

I shove him harder against the wall. “What message?”

“That’s between me and her.”

I retrieve the blade from my pocket and press it to his abdomen, earning a hiss. “That’s where you’re wro?—”

The bathroom door opens, and I stiffen.

Bishop strolls in, eyeing us with indifference as he continues past to the urinals.

Are you fucking kidding me?

---