Telling them that I’d dragged him to some cheap hotel, then had wild monkey sex with him. Something involving handcuffs and whipped cream and a fluffy purple boa.
“He showed me pictures of his kids,” I told them. “He has a daughter about the same age that Tricia would’ve been.”
Carrie and Margarita shot each other a look.
“And?” Carrie asked.
“I ugly cried like a mental case. Then he took me home and kissed me on the forehead.”
They groaned in unison.
“Kiss of death,” Margarita said gravely. “You’ll never hear from him again.”
“Hey, let’s not leap to judgment,” Carrie objected. “Yes, you cried all over him while you were drunk. Obviously that’s a huge turnoff. But you didn’t see how he was watching your ass, Tink. You were looking mighty fuckable last night, which means there’s still hope. He already put in the effort to comfort you while you were sad—I’ll bet he’d be happy to collect his reward. Give him a call.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Way ahead of you,” she said, grinning. “This morning I called Anita Schofner. She lives in Wenatchee these days, works at Bi-Mart. Anyway, Anita is friends with Kirstie Inman, who’s friends with Brandy Soza. She’s Joel’s sister’s hairdresser and she just happened to have his phone number.”
Margarita and I stared at her, eyes wide.
“What?” she asked, all innocence.
“That’s some serious stalker shit,” Margarita said slowly, and I had to agree. Sometimes Carrie scared me.
“Yeah, it’s a disease,” Carrie said seriously. “And not only am I good at stalking people, I’m vindictive as hell. That’s why you should always buy me lots of alcohol, so I stay in a good mood. Now, here’s the plan. Tinker, you’re going to text him later today. Tell him you wanted to apologize for going all sad on him, and that you’d like to take him out to dinner or something.”
“If I do that and he figures out how I got the number, he’ll probably file for a restraining order,” I said. Carrie shrugged.
“You already went all crazy on him last night,” she said reasonably. “You’ve got nothing to lose at this point.”
I looked to Margarita, waiting for her to shoot down the ridiculous plan. She shrugged.
“I’m the wrong person to ask. Crazy is what I do, remember? And you need a distraction from your hot handyman. I can see why you want to sleep with him. If I weren’t married—”
“Not helping,” Carrie said, cutting her off. “So, you’ll call and ask him out?”
I considered the situation, then sighed.
“What the hell . . . send me the number.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GAGE
I stared at Marsh’s gun, a surge of adrenaline roaring through me. No fuckin’ way I’d be able to get it away from him before he shot me. Nope. I’d have to bluff my way through this one.
“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?” Marsh asked.
This is it, asshole. If he’s onto you, you’re dead. Of course, my Reaper brothers would skin him alive—vengeance was kind of our thing—but seeing as I’d be in a grave by then, the thought wasn’t much comfort.
Time to roll the dice.
“Yeah, I got somethin’ to tell you,” I said, offering a grim smile. “I’m considering breaking up with your sister, seeing as she fucks other guys. It’s getting old.”
Marsh stared at me for long seconds, eyes wild, then he burst into maniacal laughter. I kept myself loose and ready for action, but he was lowering the gun.
“Jesus, you’re crazy, Romero,” he said, shaking his head. “Usually guys piss themselves like babies when I do that.”
Yeah, well, I’m a Reaper, not one of your fuckin’ pussy rejects.
“Got nothin’ to hide, Marsh,” I said, holding my hands out to the side, palms up. “You wanna shoot me, not like I can stop you.”
“Sit down,” Marsh said, jerking his chin toward a chair. I sat, leaning back like I was totally relaxed and comfortable with the situation. “We’ve got a traitor. Told you about him already—goes by the name Hands.”
I raised a brow.
“Traitor? What did he do?”
“Talked to the feds,” he said, leaning toward me, knee jittering. “And maybe the Reapers, too. Playing both sides. He sold us out.”
“I get the feds, I guess, but what do the Reapers have to do with anything?” I asked carefully, because what he’d said made no fucking sense at all. Hands was dead, and he sure as hell hadn’t been a Reapers spy.
Meth logic.
“Nothing,” Marsh said, narrowing his eyes. “They think they run Washington, but this is my territory. Just because