Page 54 of Fiona and the Fixer

He dropped his clipboard on a shelf beside the cheap vodka and moved past me and to his office. I didn’t worry he’d run. I had five inches on him, fifty pounds of muscle, and his pinky. Plus, this was his business, the only way for him to make the money he needed to pay Bones back. And not with more fingers. He had nowhere to go, so I was patient–or as patient as I could be–as he dropped into his desk chair, then unlocked one of the side drawers. He pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to me.

I didn’t need to count it to know it was the right amount. He had too much to lose if it was off. A cat had nine lives. Jimmy had nine fingers to go.

“You look… off,” he said, studying me.

I kept right on frowning.

“Holy shit, you’ve got woman problems.”

Now I glared.

He made the come-hither gesture with both his hands, the stump where his pinky should have been if I hadn’t chopped it off very noticeable. “Tell Uncle Jimmy all about it.”

UncleJimmy? We weren’t friends. We weren’t even acquaintances. We were… hell, what did he think of me, the guy who’d removed his left pinky with a pair of garden nippers? Asshole? Satan? Yet he wanted me to unload my love life on him?

“I’m not sure if you’re the best person to be handing out advice, Nine Fingers,” I muttered.

“I helped your buddy, Jack,” he reminded.

When he still had ten fingers, Jack came with me once for a pickup. Jimmy hadn’t had the cash, but Jack made a deal with him that I wouldn’t take his finger if he helped write a text to Hannah, who he’d been hardcore stalking at the time. He’d given ridiculous advice about texting emojis or other stupid shit. He wasn’t Dr. Ruth or Dr. Phil.

“Come on,” he prodded. “I have the money this week. We’re buds.”

I huffed. Buds? Us? The only bud I had was Jack and he retired from the life. Left me to deal with lowlifes likeJimmy all by my lonesome. Settled into a town where he had a very short list of bad guys on his pantry door, and they included an eleven-year-old with a bad throwing arm.

What it didn’t include was the pickle shop guy. I’d never seen him before and since he wasn’t on Jack’s list, he either wasn’t a bad guy or hadn’t crossed Jack’s radar.

But he crossed Fiona’s and because of that, I’d have to check him out.

I sighed and gave in, leaned against the doorframe. I wasn’t touching anything in this place. “Fine. There’s a woman who’s driving me fucking crazy.”

“Can’t decide if you should strangle her or fuck her?”

Even though all Fiona and I had pretty much done besides yell and fuck, I didn’t like him talking about her like that. But Jack was away, and I didn’t really have anyone else to talk to about this. I had to take what I could get.

“Pretty much,” I replied.

He smiled. “Then you’re in love.”

I stared at him. Blinked a few times. Had he been drinking his own stock? “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He waved his four-fingered hand like a game show hostess. “That’s what a relationship is like. Hell and the best sex of your life.”

“Hellandgood sex? That makes no sense.”

“Neither does love.”

I tipped my head and eyed him. “You’ve been divorced how many times?”

“Three.”

“Then you’re the last person to dish out this kind of advice.”

“Au contraire, mon frère.” His use of French made him sound ridiculous. Why was I talking to him about this? It made me question my own sanity. He was the owner of a shitty dive bar who owed a shit-ton of money to a ruthless loan shark. “I’ve fucked up enough to be considered an expert.”

“In fucking up,” I reminded. I sighed again. “Fine, fuck it. My parents had the perfect marriage. They loved each other. I don’t mean they hated and fucked. I don’t want to think about them having sex.”

I cringed.

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