Three hours after that, I pull one of Christian’s fancy cars up in the parking lot of Lupa and let out an anxious breath, my hands tight on the wheel.“You’re fine, Bambs,” Frankie murmurs, and I glance briefly down to where he’s tucked himself next to and under the dashboard of the passenger seat,
“So,” I say, raising my eyebrows at Andre. “Found a replacement for me already?”“She’s no replacement,” he says, narrowing his eyes at the girl’s turned back before looking down at the bar in front of him. “Can’t cut fruit for shit. Every piece a different size.”I laugh, folding my hands together
Frankie’s eyes are on me the moment I pull open the driver’s-side door and slip into the car.“You good?” he asks, his voice tense.“I’m fine,” I assure him, lifting my purse into the back seat of the car.“Were you followed?” he asks, still anxious.I sit up and look out the windshield toward Lupa’
“Frankie, I don’t have any money to pay for the food!”He groans. “Iris,” he grumbles. “That so doesn’t matter right now –““Yes it does!” I hiss, putting the car in park. “Don’t you have any money!?”Frankie curses fluently and then digs in his pocket, fishing out a bill and throwing it at me. I gr
I blink with surprise when I see that I’ve missed everything – that Frankie and Nico are already dragging two dazed, cuffed men away to the little sedan as Christian punches a third, the fourth laid out unconscious at his feet. God, but they work fast. When Christian steps into the Arby’s about th
“You’re seriously going to be okay?” I ask, my voice shaking. “I promise, Bambs,” he murmurs, putting on his seatbelt. “I’m not dying today – none of us are. I’ve suffered worse than this – way worse. Honestly, I don’t even need a doctor. So?” he gestures out the windshield. “Can we go?” I groan
The warehouse is just as creepy and as bleak as I thought it would be, with low lighting and mysterious damp patches on the floors. There isn’t even anything here being stored – it’s just a strange, dank place that Christian apparently keeps for nefarious meetings. “I don’t know,” I say, my voice
I clear my throat, and concentrate on threading the needle, and then get to work following Frankie’s instructions as he walks me through the suture process. “Nicely done,” Frankie says with approval when I’m about halfway through. “Very nice and neat. I’ll hardly even have a scar to remember this