Page 3 of Undertow

“Ah. Well, in a few more minutes you’ll be sipping cocktails on a beach.”

Not likely.

“Oh, shit. But first…” He nods toward the backseat. “I’m gonna need you on the floor in the back.”

“Excuse me?”

“Exactly what I said. I need you out of sight while we drive through Undertow.”

“I don’t?—”

“Now, Picasso!”

I give him a hard look, clenching my jaw as I unbuckle the seatbelt.

Picasso.I hate that nickname. It started right after I was dragged into the McArthur organization two and a half years ago. Something about my tattoos and “artist vibe,” whatever the hell that means.

With another cold glare, I squeeze between the front seats and contort myself to fit on the floor. I’m over six feet tall, so trying to maneuver out of sight is no easy task, especially with Abe’s seat pushed so far back. He moves it up maybe half an inch in a cursory gesture.

“What’s Undertow?” I ask.

“I’ll explain later. We’re about to hit the toll. Just shut up and stay invisible, got it?”

I roll my eyes, but at this point I’ll do anything to be on land again.

As soon as we pull to a stop, Abe lowers the window.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he says in a chipper tone.

“Fuck off,” another voice grumbles through the open window.

“Aw. Don’t be like that, Ty Baby,” Abe snickers.

“We can do this without words, you know.”

The other man sounds younger than Abe. Maybe my age? Gruff, but then it’s hard to tell if the speaker or his audience is responsible for the rough, clipped tone.

The pause and flutter of movement that follows suggest a transaction is taking place. Abe said something about a toll?

“Always a pleasure, darlin’,” he says with that same mock fondness.

“The pleasure is all mine,Abraham Dearest,” the other man jeers as my driver raises the window again.

“Fucker,” Abe mutters, peeling away.

I file that odd exchange in the mental vault and push up from the floor.

“Can I move front now?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell you when. We just crossed into Hartford territory. We still have another mile or so ‘til we’re in Palmetto Acres.”

“Palmetto Acres?”

“McArthur territory.”

“Wait. Palmetto… as inThe Palmetto Grande?”

“Ding-ding. And the genius golden boy strikes again!”

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