Page 15 of Skotos
“Damn right, I did. If you ever get shot again, it better be because I did it.”
“Will!”
I elbowed him again. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, asshole.”
We sat in silence, sipping bourbon, enjoying the simple feel of each other’s presence.
Outside, Paris twinkled on.
Ring-ring.
Thomas groaned.
Ring-ring.
I rolled over, my annoyed moan forming a harmony with his.
Ring-ring.
“Who the fuck is calling in the middle of the night?” Thomas asked.
Ring-ring.
“Whoever they are, they’re not giving up.”
Ring-ring.
“The phone’s on your side. It’s your duty. Save me, Mr. Will. Save me.”
Ring-ring.
“I fucking hate you sometimes,” I said, meaning none of it, as I reached from beneath the gloriously warm, thick covers and exposed my arm to the Parisian chill.
“Allo,” I grumbled into the receiver, just sour enough to ensure the offending caller understood what they’d done and might feel a spark of guilt. It was a pitiful hope, but it was all I had at that ungodly hour.
An annoyingly perky voice spoke in clipped French, “Laundry pickup. Ready by eleven tomorrow. Thank you for using Blanchisserie Sainte-Claire.”
The line went dead.
I sat up, now fully awake, replaced the receiver, and rubbed my eyes.
“What was that?” Thomas asked, still buried beneath a mountain of comforter and sheets.
“A summons from our neighborhood dry cleaner.”
“Aw, shit,” Thomas muttered. “I was just getting used to staying in one place, especially this place.”
I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I’m going to make coffee. There’s no way I can sleep now.”
“Wake me up in time for our laundry date. Nothing says loving couple like picking up the cleaning together.”
I laughed. “Fuck you, Thomas Jacobs.”
“Come back to bed and say that.”
9
