Page 30 of Root

Her eyes turn into glitter slits.

“You ate,” I say, “sang me some Iggy Pop and the Stooges, and some dude named Nick Cave. You sounded like the Birthday Party at one point.”

“You have no idea who the Birthday Party are.”

“Old Nick Cave band. Looked it up. I’m shocked any of them lived past thirty, let alone some of them are still making music.” I laugh. “YouTube’s a gold mine.”

She seems content now. Not so much with the Shakespeare thing so I know there’s something about that play…

“The stitches are those dissolving type, I think. Not sure. They can come out in another five days.”

“And,” Jess says, “the king of Mafia wants to see me.”

I study her. She’s prettier without the heavy make up. Softer, more approachable. Or, I amend, seems to be. Because she’s one tough woman under that surface. The tough isn’t an act.

“Most people think Nikolai’s a rich benefactor,” I say. “One who makes money in a lot of different arenas. Sure, they think there’s some shade attached to him, that he’s maybe got connections. But the glittery world of the Queenstown and beyond elite love him.”

I don’t mention he fucking hates even been in that world for one second. He likes the shadows. He likes being invisible.

To be fair he likes Rose, me and Dante and I might be fighting for number two position with a fucking cat.

“Who’s Rupert the Fourth?” I ask.

That blindsides her.

“I mentioned him?”

“A number of times,” I say. “You told me after serenading me with…Nick the Stripper…that you wanted to make sure he was okay. You were anxious. Said he’d starve.”

She frowns. “I said that?”

“All that. Then you said you wanted a bird of your own for Brutus?” I shrug. “Can’t work out if you have a pet, don’t have one but want one, or if you have a prisoner called Brutus locked away somewhere. I mean, I asked. But you wouldn’t say anything else. Wouldn’t even say where you live. Although, to be fair you might not have known. All I got from you was you claimed to live in a broken down tiny castle of your own.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Me either.”

Her hands still on my throat and she’s shifted a little closer. I slip my hand under panties at her hip. And rest it there.

She moans softly.

I don’t mention it. I’m a gentleman.

Okay, I’m not. But I don’t mention it.

“Rupert?” I ask.

“Would you believe he’s a crow?”

“Shiny?” I ask, describing any and all black birds I’ve seen. “Beak so sharp it could kill, and a mean expression on his face?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering if the bad-tempered bird who’s taken up residence in one of the trees and spends time eyeing Dante like he’s dinner is her actual pet.

“Except he isn’t real.”

I need to talk to her, not feel her up, kiss her and try and fuck her. Talk.

---