sweat trickling down my neck with the mere proximity.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Excuse me? We had a deal. I hand off my blade, you let me pass. You give it back to me, when I leave.”
“I give this blade back to you, and you’ll be passing through my club with a weapon on you. Not allowed, catin.”
“I swear to freaking Christ, if you don’t quit calling me hooker, I’m going to lose my shit right here. Right now.”
“Hooker? Mais, non. You’re in Valir country, not France. Here, it means something else.”
“What?”
“I’ll let you find that out yourself.”
I don’t even think there’s an app to translate Valir, as so few people speak it nowadays. “No matter. Look, I’m not leaving this club without my knife.”
“Well, we have a problem, then.”
“Can you just … meet me down by the door?”
He uses the blade to point toward the window. “’Fraid I can’t do that, chère.” That word, I’ve come to learn, is a pretty common endearment, and while most of the mainlanders pronounce it like sha, it sounds more like shya in Valir. “I’m a busy man. Gotta keep a bird’s-eye on things.”
“What about the troll—I mean … bouncer? Can he hand it off to me at the door?”
Lips flat, he shakes his head. “He leaves that door? Who knows what could come walking in. Without any ID.”
“Would you quit playing with me and give me back my knife? Pretty please?”
“Come back in a couple days. I’ll meet you outside then, and return your blade.”
“No. I’m definitely not coming back here.”
“What? You don’t trust me to hold your knife until then?” His gaze dips to the bag clutched in my hand and back to me. “I’m fairly hospitable, don’t you think?”
“I don’t even know you.”
“You can call me Mr. Bergeron.”
“I didn’t even call my teachers in school by their last names. Or Mister, for that matter.”
“You were on a first name basis?”
“I was on a fucking basis.” Well, only one of them, but the name rule pretty much applied to all of them.
Something I might mistake for intrigue, if I thought I was actually worth this man’s time, flickers in his eyes.
“Give me my knife, Mr. Bergeron, and you won’t have to see my face again.”
He stares at me for far longer than I expect. So long, I’m certain my temperature has risen another whole degree, and the tickle of sweat taunts my hairline. “Day after tomorrow. I’ll pencil you in then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my work.”
“This is stealing. I can call the cops right now and settle this.”
“Yes. You can.” He pushes his cellphone toward me, the bastard, without a hint of concern, or care. “You’re welcome to do so.”
Teeth grinding, I glance down at the phone and back to him. Of course I’m not calling the police. I’m not even supposed to fucking be here. This whole night was a series of mishaps that began the second I decided to give a shit about a little boy and his mother. Had I ignored the kid, I’d probably be back at my crappy, dilapidated house, munching on a sad-looking tuna on rye.
“I’ll be back here tomorrow. At four o’clock. And I expect you to be at that goddamn door with my knife.”
“Non, I’m sorry. That time doesn’t work for me. Come day after tomorrow. At eight.” The amusement in his tone is enough to make me reach across that ridiculously uncluttered desk of his and slap the humor right off that pretty face.
“Fine. Day after tomorrow. Eight. You stand me up, or pull any bullshit, and I’ll--”
“You’ll what?”
What? What will you do, Céleste? Give in to those too-wise chestnut eyes that can probably read you like a textbook on how to breathe air?
Fuck him, just like the last guy who toyed with you in that irresistibly taunting way?
“I wouldn’t play games with me, Mr. Bergeron.” Planting a palm on his desk, I lean toward him. “Because I may not look like much, but I am one crazy bitch, and believe me when I say, you don’t want anything to do with that.” Brows kicked up in warning, I shake my head. Crazy, I silently mouth.
If he can pull a bluff, so can I, and to be honest, I’m not really lying. I can’t say what I would do. Maybe nothing.
Then again, no one’s ever stolen my blade before.
12
Thierry
Trouble.
The girl moves through the crowded tables below, unwary of the men who divert their gazes