“You should be. But he’ll pick me over you, so I’m not worried.”
She doesn’t get it. She’s lost in some warped sense of her relationship with Sean. He’s had time to go back to her. Shane said it’s been over for months. Sean hasn’t been with her since he ended it. At least, that’s what he’s led Shane to believe. I don’t think he’d lie to his twin about this. I don’t think he’d lie to Finn either.
“Who asked you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would. That’s why I asked. You’re making me impatient.”
I lower the gun long enough to shoot her foot again.
“Wait!” She wails as tears stream down her face from the pain. It must hurt an awful lot. All the sarcasm in the world intended.
“Who asked you?”
“This guy.”
“If you aren’t going to be useful.” I put the gun to her forehead and push.
She whimpers. Maybe now she understands I’m serious. Apparently, two bullets in the foot didn’t convince her.
“This guy came into a club while I was working.” She’s panting every few words. She better not fucking pass out. “He knew I’d been working for the O’Rourkes for a while. Said he’d seen me at a couple of their strip clubs. He got me chatting, and before I realized what I was saying, I admitted I’d been Sean’s sub.”
The defiance has evaporated. Now there’s fear, and it’s not directed toward me.
“What did he look like?”
“Big. Just like all the other guys.”
“Accent?”
“Yeah.”
“New York?”
“No.” So not Cosa Nostra.
“Boston?”
“No.” Thank God for small mercies.
“Spanish?”
“No.” So not Cartel.
“Russian?”
“No. I know the bratva men. I’ve worked for them too. It wasn’t one of them.”
“French?”
“Maybe. But not like I’ve heard in movies.”
They say that Québécois is more sing-songy than other French dialects or accents. I don’t know about that. But I infuse it into my accent as I continue in English.
“Did the person sound like this?”
“Yes.”