Page 43 of Savannah Royals
“Mayhave?” To my chagrin, he’s right on my heels. “Why are you being coy?”
“I’m not being coy.” I sit on the bed. “Hemayhave come around on Wednesday. Youmayhave had Abe tail him for two days last week. It’s all very mysterious, isn’t it?”
“You and Abe talk too much.”
“We talk because we know when your wheels are turning, Paul, and I’m not sure I like where they’re headed. I need a break for a little while. Please.”
“Okay.” He raises his hands. “We’ll take a break. I’m just saying, in the meantime—”
“Do my job?” I narrowmy eyes.
He snorts. “Come on, Kat. I’m making the same suggestion I’ve made a dozen times before. Why’re you getting so defensive about it today? Is he interested or not?”
I place my wineglass on the bedside table with a decisivethud.A dollop of liquid sloshes onto the wood.
“He’s interested.” Frankly, I wish it would bother Paul a little more.
“Good. Keep him that way.”
I forcibly withhold an eye roll as I yank open the drawer, searching for something to mop up the spill. As the drawer slides out, however, it’s not napkins I see first. It’s a revolver.
I freeze.
Paulhatesguns. He enforces a strict no-gun policy among the gangs in the bayou. At least, he tries to. He says real men don’t fight with guns, only cowards do. In the Wolfpack, we only brandish knives. The other gangs know the rules, but there are always heaters floating around the bayou. Much like the threat of Prohibition, nothing stops the black market. But if Paul catches one of the underlings with the weapon, he’ll flay them alive.
“Paul.” I find my voice. “Why do you have a gun?”
He’s quick with a response, almost rehearsed. “For protection.”
“You never had a gun in the bayou loft, and it’s far less safe than here. I think this”—I pull the revolver out, feeling its deadly weight in my hands—“makes you a hypocrite.”
“It doesn’t make me a hypocrite.” He takes the gun and tucks it back inside the drawer.
“I think it might,” I reply. “It certainly might make you a hypocrite.”
He sighs again and sinks onto the bed beside me. “No, it makes me just like everybody else.”
“Since when have we aimed to be like everybody else?”
“Kat, I decide what risks I’m willing to take. At this apartment, I’m usually alone or with only you. So yes, I keep a gun here. To protectme…and to protect you. It’s not like I’m out trolling the streets of the bayou, packing heat.”
I listen patiently as he explains.
“I’m a wanted man, remember? Everyone in Savannah is hunting wolves these days. We have to be smart.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it, doll.” He rises from the bed and crosses the room, then hovers uncertainly in the doorway. “Are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you, Paul,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. “It just worries me you think you need a gun. It tells me—even more emphatically—we should lay low for a while. The Astor Manor job is the stuff of legend. We need to let it breathe. Take a break.”
Paul doesn’t reply, and I look carefully at him, closing the distance between us. My gaze glides over every inch of his achingly familiar face, stuttering over a new mark.
“Speaking of Astor Manor, seems the guards put up quite the fight.” I brush my finger across the cut above his eyebrow. “How’d this happen?”
“One of ’em had a switchblade.”
“I worry about you,” I admit, staring at the wound, “on jobs when we’re not together.”
