Page 18 of One
“Oh.” I can’t hide my surprise. “Hello,” I lamely say.
A husky voice comes from the other line. “Hello, Michael. I heard you’ve been part of a stressful circumstance.”
“Yes,” I answer, riding the obvious train.
“You’re a forensic pathologist. Moved to Chicago on February the 20th, working at Grand View. Adopted. Only child. Parents deceased…”
“Rami!” Raphael growls at the same time I ask, “How the hell do you know all that?”
“I know much more. And can find out the rest. But you’ve become a person I’m very interested in, Michael,” he replies unapologetically.
“Why? I’m extremely boring, except maybe my job, which I can assure you is not as intriguing as in the movies. My life is pretty uneventful. Tonight has been the most action I had in a while.” And the ramble is back.
“Prepare to have tons of it, babe.” Raphael’s suggestive smile makes me blush, even after what almost happened a minute ago. I try to cover it with a roll of my eyes, but my inner slut is waiting for his commands.
“Babe?” Rami sounds surprise by Raphael’s endearment toward me.
Still,Nobody puts Baby in a corner,“You don’t sound like a cop. And the inhumanly fast tapping noise I’m hearing tells me you’re very good with computers.”
Raphael smiles proudly at me, gripping my nape in a gentle squeeze. All that’s missing is theattaboy. Damn! I’ve turned into a praise bitch.
“You see? Interesting,” Rami retorts. “Serena, mute the keyboard, please.”
Now who’s Serena?
“Done, Rami,” a warm, smooth female voice promptly replies.
Whatever. “Look, I’m just addicted to Hercule Poirot’s investigations and his connoisseur mustache. Nothing more,” I quip.
“Oh fuck! Not another one,” Rami mutters.
“Another what?” I ask confused.
“Self-made, justice-seeker sucker.” Raphael’s foster brother sighs.
“That’s a hurtful statement based on a very limited interaction,” I counter, stressing my outrage in every word.
“Rami, shut it!” Goosebumps erupt all over my arms at Raphael’s rumbly snarl.
“You don’t have to go all growly on me, Raph.”
“Then stop being an asshole.” He keeps the growl.
“Reading my life on a screen doesn’t tell you who I am,” I scoff.
“Well… technically that’s not entirely correct. And all those sour cream and onion chips you eat aren’t good for your reflux,” Rami snickers.
How…? Damn credit cards! Is he a hacker? “I don’t have reflux!”
“You’ll get it if you keep eating like that.”
“You sound like Miss Ellison, my sixth-grade teacher. She smelled like egg, and I hated her,” I deadpan, not enjoying Rami’s laugh at all. “What the fuck is this? Why are you even checking me?” I turn my glare to Raphael. “Is it some kind of precaution because you’re Scrooge-McDuck rich?”
“And president of a big ass company.” Rami sounds condescending.
“An NDA would have sufficed,” I tell both of them.
“No. Fuck, Rami, enough!” Raphael sounds pissed.
