Page 37 of Assassin's Prey
I heard some rustling like she was fidgeting in her seat. Then, “They want anyone who knows you’re alive to disappear, right?”
“Right.”
“Then we make sure as many people know your name as we possibly can,” she said, a lilt to the words that told me she was enjoying the thought of thwarting our enemies. “They can’t kill them all.”
My eyes met Remi’s, knowing he’d heard Abby’s words too. The wicked smile that spread across his face told me all I needed to know. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard in years. Let’s make you a celebrity, brother.”
Oh fuck no.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Sixteen
“Where the fuck did you find this thing?”
The tux fit me perfectly, damn it. I’d heard them called monkey suits, and at this moment, squirming in the snug pants and tugging at the tight collar of the dress shirt while I stared with true fear at the confining jacket lying on the bed, I understood why. Give me a tactical vest, fatigues, and a hundred-pound pack of equipment any day—this was the real torture.
Abby seemed to be enjoying my discomfort a little too much as we stood before the warped mirror in the safe-house bedroom. “Charlotte.”
Charlotte again? Who was this woman?
Who cared? Right now I hated her guts.
“Who—”
My woman smoothed her hands down my chest, a small grin playing on her lips. “A friend.”
“Since when do you have friends?”
Not what I’d meant to say, but the glare Abby shot my way convinced me to keep any attempts at explaining behind my lips.
“I do have friends. You’d know that if—”
I kissed her hard on the mouth. “I know; if I stuck around during the day.”
“Right, dickhead,” she said as she picked up the black bow tie lying on the bed. “I knew Charlotte before my dad…you know.” She waved a hand vaguely, the ends of the tie swinging in the air. “A few months ago we reconnected. She founded a charity that assists low-income families in affording adoptions.”
“Hmm.” Sounded noble of her. I glanced down at the dress clothes and wondered if I needed a background check on this Charlotte. Or maybe we’d skip right to the torture considering she was the one who’d provided the monkey suit.
“You’re pouting like a little boy forced to dress up for church.”
“We were Jewish. We didn’t go to church; we went to temple,” I reminded her.
“Did you wear a yarmulke?”
I could hear it in her voice; she was imagining three stair-step boys with little black yarmulkes on their heads, following their parents into temple. My memories of that time were almost as rosy, so I wasn’t sure if it truly had been rosy or I’d simply colored them that way after living on the streets, in the midst of violence.
“Of course we did.”
“Then you’re more than familiar with fashion over a comfort.”
I groaned. I’d hated wearing the hat. Most kids did.
When she moved close, her hands brushing my neck to slide the bow tie under my collar, I took the opportunity to grip her hips and force her against me.
“You’ll wrinkle,” she protested, but her eyes didn’t protest.
Fuck wrinkles. “I love your eyes.”
