Cruel Paradise

9

“Doubtful,” says Fin. “There were no headlights behind us until we got on the highway, and that was ten miles from the warehouse. Besides, if someone saw us breaking in, they’d have called the police, not tailed us.”

“Could the apartment be under surveillance?”

Max makes a face. “If the cops were watching us, they would’ve showed up at the restaurant, not him.”

“Maybe they’re on his payroll.”

“Well, yeah, they probably are. My point is that we’d already be arrested. Instead we’re sitting here, shitting our pants, wondering how soon it’ll be before we get a bullet in our skulls.”

I stop pacing to look at them. “That’s the thing, though. He could’ve snapped my neck in the taxi if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He let me go.” I think for a moment. “Actually, that’s not technically correct. He threw me out.”

Fin sits up straighter. “Wait. What?”

I drop into the overstuffed leather chair across from the sofa and stare morosely at my feet. “Yeah. It was so strange. He was being weirdly pleasant and not killing me, then he went all Conan the Barbarian and threw me out of the cab.”

Max and Fin gaze at me in loaded silence, until Max says, “What did you say to make him do that?”

My hackles go up at the way it sounds like an accusation. “Why does it have to be something I said?”

Fin says gently, “You do have a way of exasperating men, hun.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

With none of Fin’s tact, Max says, “It means your mouth makes men crazy. And not in a good way.”

Fin nods. “Like not in the wow-you-give-a-great-blowjob way.”

I lift my chin and look down my nose at them. “I’ll have you know I give an excellent blowjob.”

Max snorts. “Really? When was the last time you gave someone a blowjob? And dreams don’t count!”

I open my mouth to make a smart retort, but have to close it again when I realize I have no idea when the last time was that I performed that particular s****l act, in dreams or otherwise.

Best not to think about it. I’ve got more important things to be depressed about.

“Getting back to the subject at hand: Liam Black has our home address.”

That hangs in the air ominously for a while, until Fin says,

“I think the real subject at hand is what specifically you said to make him throw you out of the cab.” “I agree,” says Max, nodding.

“How is that important?”

“If it was important enough to stop him from murdering you, it’s important enough to consider.” She motions to the waiter for another round of drinks, then turns her attention back to me. “So, what was it?”

I already know it’s useless to try to divert Max from this line of conversation. She’ll hound me until I answer. She’s as stubborn as a Rottweiler. So I slouch lower in the chair, close my eyes, and think.

After several moments, it hits me. “Oh.” I open my eyes and think some more, frowning. “No. That can’t be right.”

Fin and Max lean forward, all ears. They say in unison, “What?”

Still frowning, I look up into their eager faces. “I think… it’s possible I might have insulted him.”

After a beat, Fin turns to Max. “She thinks she insulted him.”

Max turns to Fin. “The head of the Irish mafia.”

“She insulted the head of the Irish mafia so badly, he forgot to kill her.”

They turn back to me and stare at me in accusing silence.

“Jeez, you guys. Thanks for the support.”

The waiter—a cute young guy with a man bun and a tattoo of Betty Boop on his forearm—returns with our drinks. He sets them on the coffee table, takes the empty glasses, and grins at Max. “You need anything else?”

One brow quirked, Max looks him up and down. When she opens her mouth, Fin elbows her in the ribcage.

Max sighs. “We’re good, thanks.”

He leaves with a wistful smile in her direction.

Fin watches him go with a curled lip. “Unbelievable. We’re being hunted by the mob king as we speak, and you’re flirting with hipsters.”

“We’re not being hunted by the mob king. He already found us, and Devil Tongue here”—Max gestures to me —“scared him away.”

“You’re welcome,” I say loudly, grabbing my second shot of vodka.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” says Fin, grabbing her own drink. “The reality is that Liam Black is probably plotting our deaths at this very moment. Our violent, hideous, painful deaths, which he’ll take great pleasure in, considering we not only stole from him, but insulted him as well. To his face. For a man who can make grown men cry by the mere mention of his name, that’s probably worse.”

Aggravated, I shoot the vodka, wincing as it sears a path down my throat. “I said I think I might have insulted him, not that I was sure!”

Fin pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and sits forward. “Just tell us the words you spoke, and we’ll go from there.”

Sighing heavily, I shrug. “I just…he was sort of…sniffing my throat—”

“Sniffing your throat?” she interrupts, wide-eyed.

It sounds even worse out loud. “Um. Yes. I was on his lap and he was sniffing—”

“On his lap?” they say together.

I glance around in irritation. “Can you please keep your voices down?”