Page 57 of Underground Prince

“To me?” I held the envelope against my chest. “Why, you shouldn’t have.”

He either ignored my statement or was already too used to me to comment. “The apartment is number six. I believe you might’ve seen him last night. These are his winnings.”

I inspected the envelope, which no doubt contained a boatload of cash. “Sounds good to me.”

I plopped my hat back on my head, finding it to be some form of weird protection against this even weirder evening, and dragged my tote across the seat behind me as I got out.

“You can leave that here, you know,” Theo said. “Unless you think I’m going to steal your laptop.”

“Your humor,” I said, dropping low so I could see him in the car’s interior, “comes at the most fucked up of times.”

“I know it.” He said it straight-faced.

I rose, covering a smile. “Okay Brodes, let’s go,” I said. Brodie had already silently gravitated toward me.

The entry was a standard walkup, with no security blocking us or employees glancing curiously at a Raggedy Ann and the Hulk wandering through their corridors, as if this sort of superhero duo was natural.

We reached the sixth floor and I knocked at the only apartment door. I asked Brodie, “So, how do I approach this?” but he had no advice to give me but the arch of a brow.

“One sec!” a vaguely familiar voice called from the other side.

I did a little side-to-side sway to kill time in the deserted hallway.

“Does Sax always chauffeur his collectors around?” I asked Brodie. “He sits pretty in an expensive car while we do all the grunt work?”

“No. Never,” he said.

I frowned. “Really? But then why—”

“Hey. Sorry for making you wait.”

“Oh, Jesus.” It came out as a burst of surprise, and I covered my mouth until I ordered myself not to be an idiot and dropped my hand.

There stood my dreamland husband, Austin Dean, in all his shirtless glory.

“Well,” he said, taking me in from my wooly gray hat all the way down to my worn combat boots. “You’re different.”

“Yep,” I said.

“Come on in.”

I did as instructed, clasping my hands and praying I wouldn’t eye-fuck him like a lovesick fan. I’d never encountered a celebrity before, never mind stood within three feet and conversed with one. I wasn’t sure what I’d get up to if left to my own devices.

“How much did I win again?” Austin asked as he wandered into the kitchen. Blindly, I followed.

“Um.” I held up the envelope to his back. “This much.”

His place was a mess, clothes strewn about his couch and floor, dirty dishes stacked in the sink and the countertops around it, crumbs and other substances decorating the floors and all available hard surfaces.

“I apologize for the mess,” he said, conscious of my study. “Cleaning lady’s coming in an hour.”

Poor cleaning lady.

“No problem.” I propped my bag on a stool after covertly cleaning it with a swipe of my jacket sleeve.

He lifted a few piles of papers, some I realized were scripts, before saying, “Ah! I thought I’d lost you,” and holding up a baggy filled with white powder to the light.

“Want some?” he asked, but I’d started shaking my hand well before the coke was illuminated.

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