Page 119 of Female Fantasy
He’s smiling at us.
“Very good,” he says. “Poetic shit, that stuff you were mumbling under your breath about themarrow of shrouded wordsor whatever the fuck. That really was a pretty line. But you see, gunpowder beats paper.”
He cocks the gun, and I hear it click, just like they do in the thrillers.
Ugh. I hate thrillers.
“Just give me the notebook and get on your knees,” he says. “I know you have it. It’s easy to see this guy cares about you. You’ll be good collateral until I collect what I’m owed. I’m real good at reading people.”
Sure he fucking is.
This guy? He hasn’t read a day in his life.
Maybe if he had, he’d be able to see what’s coming next.
But still, with Nico beside me and a pistol pointed at my face, I forget how to breathe. How to think. The Shrug has the advantage here, and he knows it.
“Hand me my bag,” I say.
“You,” he nods toward Clarisse, keeping the gun and his eyes trained on me. “Will you stop rolling around on the ground and bring me her purse, please?”
Clarisse sniffles but obeys.
He’s the false queen Talassa to their Nix and Naia.
And I think we havehis lackey’sledger.
There’s no way that one muscle man’s notebook has the power to take down an entire organization, but there has to be something incriminating enough in there to make Little Lester travel all this way, right? Maybe we hold more chips than we realize. And once he takes the book back, he’s going to get away with everything.
But at least Nico will be safe.
And then I hear footsteps, and a voice says, “Not so fast.”
I recognize that voice.
Roy stands across the street, dressed in a giant fur coat and bare legs that can’t be comfortable in the cold, holding what appears to be a bedazzled pink can of mace.
Next to him, Kalli is demonstrating her most intimidating scowl, a taser in one hand and a phone in the other. When I look closer, I realize she must be filming. Live streaming, if I’m not mistaken. That familiar blinking red light taunts the Shrug, who squints in confusion.
And in front of them, Angel grins, walking toward us and swinging a baseball bat—signed by Babe Ruth, no less. They’re wearing an elaborate top hat and raincoat. Purrtha Mason hums at their feet.
My very own Upper Shoal.
They’re here to defend me.
Fight for me.
Withme.
To remind me, once for all, that I am not in this alone.
I hear police sirens swelling in the distance.
Angel’s smile only grows.
“Don’t screw with the Salty Girls,” they say.
The Shrug hesitates, lowering his gun in surprise.
