Page 34 of Butcher & Blackbird
And I’m seething.
“I have to hand it to you,” I whisper as Thorsten gets into his car and we wave him off. “Your grocery delivery trick to my home was very cute. You nearly had me fooled there with that cooking together thing.”
“Fooled?” Rowan’s eyes roam over me, bright and wry. “Not sure what you mean, Blackbird.”
“Fooled into thinking that you weren’t going to turn around and become a monumentalpain in my assat the first available opportunity for this season’s game,” I say. He bellows a laugh and I fold my arms across my chest as I glare up at him. “You are acheat.”
“Am not.”
“You’ve been following me around relentlessly to figure out who we’re after rather than looking on your own.”
“It’s not in the rule book that I can’t.”
“We don’t have a fucking rule book. But we should. Rule number one: do your own fucking research.”
“Why, when I can have so much fun following you?” Rowan’s smile only grows more devious when I growl in my most accurate Winston impression. “So…who is that guy anyway?”
I huff and roll my eyes before I pivot on my heel and stomp toward my rental car. “You are theworst,” I hiss as Rowan pulls open the driver door for me. “You and your…” I wave a hand in his direction as I slide into my seat. “Skullduggery.”
Rowan snorts as he leans down into my vehicle, his face so close to mine that I feel his every breath on my cheek. I try to ignore the way it twists my belly with a different kind of fury. “Skullduggery. Should I take this as a sign that you’ve moved on from dragon smut to pirate porn?”
“Maybe I have.”
“You know, you’re kind of adorable when you’re indignant.”
“And you are still theworst,” I growl as I tug my door free of his grip.
He manages to move before I slam it on his hand, but I still catch his teasing laugh and his parting words: “You’ll love me someday.”
The next day is not that day.
No, not when Rowan invites himself to my breakfast-for-one at the hotel restaurant. Nor when he shows up in the mall as I shop for an outfit, even though he does carry my bags and help me pick out a cute little retro-style halter dress. It’s just a ploy to gain an advantage, after all. Crafty fucker. Andsomedayis definitely not today when I park at Thorsten’s grand, secluded home in Calabasas and Rowan’s rented motorcycle is already there. He’s leaning against it, hot as sin in a black leather jacket, his gaze raking from my toes to my eyes with a look like that sets me on fire, and he knows it.
“Evening, Blackbird,” he says as he pushes off the side of the bike.
“Butcher.”
Rowan draws to a halt in front of me as I cross my arms and cock a hip. “That’s a pretty dress. Someone help pick that out for you? Whoever they are, they clearly have impeccable taste.”
“Great taste. Absolutely zero boundaries.”
He grins. “I’m so happy we’re on the same page.”
I give him my most dramatic eye roll and am about to launch into him when the front door swings open and Thorsten stands on the threshold with his arms spread in greeting.
“Welcome, my young friends,” he says, looking ready to host illustrious guests. His white hair is perfectly coiffed. His burgundy jacquard dinner jacket shimmers in the setting sun. The smile he flashes us has a hidden, sharp edge. “Please, do come in.”
He steps aside and motions for us to enter the palatial home.
We start with cocktails in the living room where first-edition books and ceramic figurines and paintings surround us, and I take the time to appreciate the art as Thorsten gives us a tour of his collection, his most prized possessions carefully labeled. Even after he’s moved on, I stare for a long while at a signed drypoint and etching print by Edward Hopper called Night Shadows. The sketch shows a man from overhead as he walks alone on a city street, the lamplight casting deep shadows around him. Something about him seems sinister. He could be stalking. He could behunting. And when I look left and right, I see the narrative emerge from the art that engulfs me.
To my left, a black and white photograph by Andrew Prokos called Fulton Oculus #2. The image evokes the feeling of an all-seeing, ominous eye made of steel and glass.
To my right, a painting by John Singer Sargent of a woman sitting at a dinner table. She faces the viewer, her hand wrapped around a glass of red wine. A man sits next to her at the far right of the image. But he’s not looking at the viewer. He’s looking ather.
Beyond that, a print of The Waltz, by Félix Vallotton. It depicts couples dancing, but they seem almost ghostly. The woman in the lower right corner looks like she’s asleep.
After that…
