Page 31 of Prodigal Son

It was another disarmingly pleasant day, the sky a faint blue, the temperature mild enough to warrant pushed-up sleeves and scarves stuffed into pockets.

But Eden walked with her jacket zipped to her chin, hands crammed in the pockets, shoulders hunched at defensive angles. She hadn’t spoken on the ride over, riding shotgun in Axelle’s GTO while Fox tipped his head back in the backseat and concentrated on not getting carsick. She was angry, he guessed. Hated him. Nervous. Probably all of those.

He thought he deserved credit for leaving her be. Surprisingly, it had taken no small amount of effort.

The coffeeshop where they were set to meet Cavendish loomed up ahead on the right, a modern affair built into the ground floor of a shiny new office building. Fox hated it on sight. It was all chrome and retro-chic industrial, none of it authentic or classic. Through the window, it looked to be full of posh, suit-wearing office types.

“Ugh,” he said, coming to a halt. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass, and he could see the bags under his eyes, the creases at their corners. He looked like he’d slept out on the street, the collar of his shirt askew beneath his cut. “What is this shithole?”

“A nice place,” Eden said. “Try not to embarrass yourself. Or me.”

“Hmm,” he murmured as he followed her into the shop. He busted out his best West Texas drawl. “I’d really hate to do that, darlin’.”

She froze just inside the door. Fox was only halfway in the door, and it tried to slam shut on his shoulder.

“Ow, what are you–”

She whirled to face him. “Charlie, do not–”

Oh. Now he got it.

He felt a shit-eating grin split his face. “Wait,” he drawled. “Is my accent…embarrassingyou?”

“Don’t–” she started.

And someone called, “Ah, Eden, there you are. Over here.”

Fox snuck a look around her shoulder and felt something like giddy. “Holy shit,” he said in his real voice. “Is that him?That’sSimon Cavendish of Cavendish Security?”

She grabbed a handful of his cut, leveled a truly deadly glare of warning on him, and then towed him over to the table.

Simon Cavendish looked, to be blunt, like the sort of wanker who accidently wandered into a biker bar in a post-apocalyptic eighties B-movie. Tall, slender, immaculate, the canned lights gleamed on his oiled dark hair. The perfect pale English gentleman.

Fox tried to reserve judgement.

He tried, okay?

“Well, well,” Cavendish said when they were crammed into chairs around the tiny table. “You’ve brought a friend.” He sent a chilly smile Fox’s way, and his gaze strayed down to the front of his cut, the assortment of well-loved patches there. It was probably Fox’s imagination that the man’s eyes lingered over the knife patch, the one dripping a single drop of bright red blood.

When his gaze lifted again, Fox sent him a smile of his own. “You’re welcome for this,” he said, flicking his fingers off the cut’s zipper. “This is your sniper insurance.”

“My what?” Cavendish turned to Eden.

She sighed. “We were shot at yesterday.”

“But don’t worry,” Fox said, “no one’s stupid enough to take a shot at a Dog flying colors. That’s asking for the sort of retribution they can’t handle.”

“Shot by whom?” Cavendish ignored Fox, brows scaling his forehead as he stared at Eden.

“Honestly? We think it was your new client,” she said.

“What? But how–? No, that can’t be–”

“Oh, spare me the theatrics,” Fox said.

Eden sent him a sharp look.

“If you’re on Pseudonym’s tab, then you know they play dirty. In fact, did they put you up to this meeting? Are you just trying to keep us here until their next hired hitman can show up and finish the job the last one botched so extravagantly?”

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