He’d dug into the bag Shift packed for him and he was currently putting fat rolls of crisp, fresh bills wrapped tight in rubber bands on the wood above the mini-bar cabinet attached to the luggage shelf. The first roll had a twenty on the outside of it. The second, another twenty. The third, a fifty.
At the fifty, my breath started sticking in my throat.
The fourth, more twenties.
Then he came out with a gun clip and it clattered on the wood by the bills as he dropped it there.
My breathing stopped.
Another gun clip. Another roll of fifties. A box of ammo. Another roll of twenties.
Then a gun.
I sucked in air.
“Um, darling?” I called on the exhale. “I’m thinking we need a family meeting.”
Just his head turned, his body stayed bent over the bag and his light brown, almond-shaped, curly-lashed eyes hit mine. As usual, he did not speak.
I tipped my head to the unit. “What’s with the bank and the firepower?”
His eyes stayed on me. Then he straightened and turned to me.
I braced in order not to flee though I didn’t know why I didn’t attempt escape, probably because he’d proved his hands were fast and I didn’t want to find out if his legs were just as fast.
He still didn’t speak.
I carried on. “I mean, I’m no parole officer but it’s my understanding ex-cons aren’t allowed to be armed.”
He finally spoke. “You don’t have a record.”
I felt my head jerk at the same time I was certain my eyes bugged out.
Then I breathed, “What?”
“Hit trouble, the .38 is yours.”
At this juncture, I felt it was time to share.
I took two steps toward him and stopped.
“As I told you during our last and only conversation, Shift knows my boundaries. Any trouble we could,” I lifted up my hands and his beautiful eyes moved to them as I did air quotation marks and said, “‘hit’,” then I dropped my hands and his eyes came back to mine as I continued, “that would require a .38 and a half a dozen wads of cash is not within my acceptable boundaries.”
He stared at me.
Then he walked the four steps to me (that, for my legs, would probably be around seven) and then I found my purse being slid off my shoulder. I watched with no small amount of concern as he dug in it and was somewhat relieved when he pulled out my phone. He turned, tossed my bag across the room to the bed then turned back to me, flipped the phone open, used his thumb then put it to his ear.
I waited as it rang. So did he. Then he flipped it closed, opened it again then hit more buttons and put it to his ear.
I waited. So did he. Then he flipped it closed, opened it and repeat.
I waited. So did he.
Finally, he spoke. “It ain’t Lexie, scum, it’s Walker. What the f**k?”
I pressed my lips together because his face might still be blank but his voice was low and rumbling. Or lower and more rumbling than normal. I didn’t know him very well but I felt this indicated extreme unhappiness.
“Yeah, with her, yeah,” he growled into the phone confusingly (at least to me), paused then stated in a further growl, “Yeah, the bag ain’t light.” Another pause then, “She don’t know jack.” Another pause then, “Jesus Christ, you’re worthless.”