Pawn (The Pawn Duet #2) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,5
to leave it out there, and the little thing would always wait for her at… I shake off the memories. “It was a dumb fucking idea. Doesn’t matter now.”
“Yeah, it was a dumb idea. Bitches don’t want cats,” Preppy chuckles. “Cats are too much of an obvious choice when considering domestic pet options.”
Nine points his beer at Preppy, “Says the man with a pet pig.”
Preppy points an accusing, tattooed finger at Nine. “You leave the sacred name of my Oscar out of this. He’s better company than either of you sniveling little shits. And Bear has a fucking coyote. So, there’s that.” He sits up. “Okay, let’s talk about the real reason why we are here. Like the fact that it’s been twenty-four hours since you called off plans for us to storm The Fourth Reich compound, and we have no immediate plans on the calendar to kill them at all, and why you’re wallowing up here like an old, fucking cat lady.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Trust me, it’s true. I know a lot of old cat ladies, and what you’re doing up here would be an insult to lovely old cat ladies everywhere.”
“I’m not wallowing,” I argue, even though I’m not really sure what wallowing means, but I make a note to look it up after these fuckers leave me in peace. “And one cat does not a cat-lady make.”
“Seriously, we need to talk,” Nine says, looking way too serious and in focus when I was really aiming for more of a drunken blur.
“So, fucking talk,” I say, chugging my drink, then setting the empty glass on my knee. “I ain’t fucking stopping you.” The faster they talk, the faster they leave, and the faster I can get back to my plans of getting shit-faced and wondering when my life had turned to complete and utter shit.
Shit. I think that’s what wallowing means.
Preppy takes a deep breath and straightens his bow-tie. He hooks his thumbs under his matching suspenders. “So, I hate to be the one to tell you...”
“What?” I bark, growing irritated. “Spit it the fuck out.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you that it’s possible that Mickey is a big, fat, lying cunt bucket, and the bitch has to die?” He raises the pitch of his voice and at the end he sounds as if he’s been sucking on helium.
“It’s not like I haven’t thought of the possibility,” I grumble. It doesn’t make it any easier hearing it cross Preppy’s lips or to know that I’m not the only one who has these doubts.
“He’s got a point,” Nine chimes in. “We know the facts about Mickey’s father. About who he was, and about him founding the Reich with Darius. We know they’re true because we verified those facts. What we don’t know is if the other parts of her story were a lie. The reasons she gave us for her affiliation with The Reich. The revenge. The part about her growing up around them but not believing in their teachings.” Nine looks about as reluctant to be having this conversation as I am. “The part where she’s with them, but she’s not really one of them.”
“I have a solution,” Preppy announces. He stands and grabs the whiskey bottle from the counter and takes a long drink on his way back to the couch. He plops back down and makes a satisfactory sound. He wipes a piece of lint from his khaki pants. “So, Pike, what you need to do is fuck her, and then, kill her. That way, she’s out of your system before you send her out of this world. Problem motherfucking solved.” He swipes his palms together, wiping them free of my problems, which he in no way has motherfucking solved.
If only it were that easy, but nothing involving Mickey has been easy or clear. Not even my feelings for her.
After spewing those words, anyone else would be laughing or smiling, because they wouldn’t be serious. Not Preppy, but I should know better by now. He’s all business, leaning forward on his elbows, his yellow plaid bow-tie as straight as ever, looking more than satisfied with his offered solution.
Nine pushes off the counter and sits next to Preppy on the worn leather couch. He slaps his brother on the back. “Points for creativity, Prep, but I don’t think that’s exactly the kind of advice that Pike’s looking for right now.”
He lifts his hands, palms facing up. “What do you mean? What kind