Page 25 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

The key!

Tulsa

Chill, I’m coming.

Me

I bought some time. We’re going to Happy Valley to shop for food.

Tulsa

How very domesticated.

We were in the produce aisle when I saw Tulsa approaching, head down, scrolling on her phone. She shoulder-checked me a little harder thanwas strictly necessary, and the key fell to the floor.

“Hey, watch where you’re going.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Cole bent to pick up the key, such a fucking gentleman. “Yours?”

“Thanks. Looks as if Team Asshole has gained another member.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. I think I’ll get a watermelon.”

Cole pushed the cart, and he insisted on paying as well, which I felt bad about because if Echo’s research was correct, he wasn’t exactly rolling in cash. And the guilt felt weird, like a pair of shoes that didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t an emotion that usually bothered me.

“Where to?” he asked when we were back in the car.

“Left at the lights. Then take the second left.”

We drove in a big square, and I surreptitiously checked behind us for any vehicles that looked out of place. Nothing stood out, thankfully. Echo would be watching too. Since the attempt on my life, I’d become even more cautious than usual, but there was no sign of another hit team.

“Didn’t we drive down this street already?” Cole asked.

“Uh, I think so? I only moved into my new place a month ago, and I’m still getting used to the area. It’s definitely right up here.”

Better to act dumb than admit to driving a surveillance detection route.

Priest’s apartment was in a nondescript building, not too nice, not too shabby. As predicted, Cole decided he was carrying the groceries inside, and I directed him to the small parking lot at the rear.

“It’s the space for unit 301.”

“You don’t keep the Porsche in a garage?”

“She has a cover.”

Cole was lifting bags out of the trunk when the backdoor of the building opened and three people walked out. And not just any three people. Marcel, Sin, and Barbie, all three of them carrying duffel bags. I swallowed a groan because whatever they’d been doing upstairs, it had undoubtedly been Marcel’s idea and I probably wouldn’t like it.

On the third floor, I held my breath as I slotted the key into the lock.

Son of a… The place smelled like the perfume counter in Macy’s. There were flowers. There was a picture of a fucking kitten on the wall.

Priest’s apartment was small, not much more than a studio, really. One bedroom, an all-white bathroom with a shower over the tub, and a kitchen separated from the living room by a waist-high counter. A dining table with two chairs was tucked into a corner. I’d only been in the apartment a couple of times—once to shovel him into the shower on a particularly dismal day, and again to clean up after wife number six. The place had been decorated since then—the last time I stood in this room, the wall behind the couch had been stained red from an entire pan of lasagne being hurled at it. Well, not atit, exactly. Wife Six had thrown the lasagne at Priest, but he’d ducked.

“Didn’t realise you were a cat person,” Cole said, nodding toward the kitten. “Where do you want the groceries?”

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