Page 27 of A Labor of Hate
“Nebraska,” I answered, consciously devoting an unhealthy amount of energy to not react to the tingles Colt’s arm sent across my skin as he wrapped it around my waist.
Why McBride had picked Nebraska as our last place we’d lived, I couldn’t be sure.But if I had to guess, he wanted to find a neutral state that was still similar to where at least one of us grew up.Since I was from Pennsylvania, that left Colt to have grown up somewhere with way too much corn and way too little human interaction.
You know, in hindsight, that would actually explain a lot.
“You poor things!”Vivienne’s lips pulled into a delicate frown.“That’s far!Did you move to be closer to family, or?—”
Charles squeezed Vivienne’s hand more urgently, finally catching her attention.“I’m sure this lovely couple has to get home soon,mon amour.Perhaps we could catch up with them another time?”
Translation: never.
Vivienne’s frown deepened before morphing into a brilliant smile.“That’s a wonderful idea!Why don’t we have you two over for dinner some time?The only thing worse than moving is trying to cook while half your stuff is still in boxes.”
Charles eyebrows rocketed up, his posture stiffening.“Viv?—”
“Oh, we wouldn’t want to put you out,” Colt replied, succeeding in hiding the fact that I was so eager to accept I was about to vibrate out of my skin.
“You wouldn’t be putting us out at all,” Vivienne gushed.
Realizing he was getting nowhere with his wife at the moment, Charles turned to address us.“Would you give us a moment?”
“Of course.”I smiled, ambling away to a respectable distance where we could still catch snippets of their discussion.
Colt must have been on the same brainwave, since he remained silent, pretending to scrutinize the posters on the wall.Or maybe he wasn’t pretending.Hard to tell, since reading wall posters was his idea of a good time.
I readjusted my purse on my shoulder, already imagining the freedom I’d have if my leggings had pockets.Then I caught some of the Gauthiers’ argument, realizing belatedly it was taking place in French.The language rolled flawlessly off Charles’s tongue, while Vivienne was more stilted and had an obvious American accent.
“They can’t bethatdangerous,” Vivienne argued.“She’s seven months along.What is she going to do?Lamb to the Slaughterus?”
I had to stifle a laugh at that.I hadn’t read that story since high school, and yet I remembered the jilted pregnant wife clobbering her husband over the head with a frozen lamb chop and then cooking the evidence and feeding it to the police.Honestly, not a horrible idea.
“We know nothing about them,” Charles countered.“They’re awfully friendly, don’t you think?”
“Some people are just friendly.They recently moved here, so I’m sure they don’t have any friends yet.”
“And we should become their friends?”
“Charles, it won’t kill us to have a friend or two.I know you’re worried about my safety, but not everyone is out to get us.”
A quick pang of guilt shot through my gut.I had no qualms about double-crossing Charles.But Vivienne?She may not even know about her husband’s underhanded side job.
“All it takes is one, my love.”I glanced over, catching a tenderness in Charles’s eyes I’d never imagined him capable of as he cupped Vivienne’s jaw in his hand.
Huh.So he wasn’tentirelywithout feeling.He just didn’t feel any remorse for the hundreds who’d died from overdosing on his work or otherwise lost their lives to addiction.
Colt leaned close, his cologne tickling my nose in the most tempting way.Which, for the record, it had no business doing.“I think we should counter-offer to meet at a neutral location.For coffee or lunch or something.”
I fought to keep from nodding visibly.“Good idea.Build their trust first, or we’ll never stand a chance.”
“And I think we should leave first.Not only because it’ll lessen the suspicion against us, but I’m positive Gauthier will send at least one of his men to follow us.”
I would’ve preferred to follow them out, but he had a point.It was the undercover equivalent of playing hard to get.Undercover reverse psychology, if you will.
He led the way, holding my hand like the lovey dovey couple we were supposed to be.Barf.Holding his hand made my stomach swoop and sink.The organ was trying to get away, poor thing.
At least his hands were warm.And surprisingly rough, yet soft at the same time.Was that even possible?Apparently so.And all this time I’d thought his hands would be softer than mine from all the paper pushing and manicures he probably got.
I mean, we’d lived together for the past three and a half days.The guy had a skin routine as long as the Declaration of Independence.Which, admittedly, wasn’t the longest document in history, but it was still longer than any straight man’s skin routine had any right to be.I’d chalk it up to the fact that hewasn’tstraight, but no self-respecting gay man would dress like the lovechild of Peewee Herman and Detective Monk.
