“What the hell, Lorenzo? You’re getting me wet!”
“Don’t I always?” he asks with a laugh, grabbing my drenched clothes and tearing them off, flinging them onto the floor before drawing the shower curtain closed again. He shoves me back against the tile wall, and I gasp as he grabs my thighs, lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, holding onto him. “Guess I owe you some reciprocation, huh?”
“You’re damn right you do,” I say. “You better make it good, too.”
He grins, kissing me, whispering against my lips, “I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Three
“You son of a bitch,” I growl, squinting, hunkered beneath the glowing lamp in the library with my gaze fixed to my lap. “I swear to God, if you don’t go in that fucking hole, I’m going to lose my shit...”
Carefully, I aim, lining up for what feels like the twentieth goddamn time, but my hand slips right past my target, once again, instead somehow making me stab myself in the thumb.
“Fuck!” I yank my hand back, watching as a bead of bright red blood bubbles up on the surface. I pop my thumb in my mouth and shove up out of my chair, sending it flying halfway across the room. “Motherfucker!”
The word’s jumbled, since I’m sucking my damn thumb, sounding more like a bitch ass shriek than anything resembling English. Frustration builds up inside of me as I kick the table, lashing out, making it screech along the floor.
“Boss?”
Seven’s hesitant voice calls out from the doorway just in the knick of time, because I was three seconds away from pulling out my gun and shooting something, which would’ve probably just pissed me off more. Goddamn bullet holes.
I turn, regarding him. He looks like his usual self, fresh-faced and wide awake, despite it being around five o’clock in the morning, the sun not yet shining. He has probably already eaten breakfast. Probably fucked his wife before leaving his house. Probably got some extra snacks stashed in his pockets. Probably did it all while I sat here like a fucking schmuck, struggling to thread this stupid ass needle.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “What happened?”
What happened?
His favorite goddamn question.
“What happened,” I say, pulling my thumb from between my lips, “is I can’t take Tab A and stick it in Slot B properly because my brain thinks the world is fucking flat so nothing appears 3D.”
He stares at me cautiously, like how you regard a wild animal, like he’s afraid of what I might be getting myself into this morning.
“Come thread this fucking needle,” I say, throwing the sewing kit down on the table, pieces of it scattering, “before I stab myself again.”
Seven approaches, assessing things, picking up the discarded needle and cutting a fresh piece of black thread, since the one I used is knotted and frayed. Three seconds, just like that, he holds the needle up in front of him and slips the thread right through it, securing the ends before handing it back.
Three seconds.
I’ve been at this for thirty minutes.
“Bullshit,” I mutter as I snatch it back. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, boss,” he says. “Is that all you needed? Is that why you called?”
“Do you seriously think I’d make you come to Queens just to thread a fucking needle for me at five o’clock in the morning?”
“Yes.”
I cast him a glare.
He’s right.
I would.
But I didn’t.
Shaking my head, I reach down, snatching the damn stuffed bear from the floor where I tossed it earlier after swiping it out of Scarlet’s clutches in bed. I motion for Seven to have a seat in my chair, while I slide up onto the table, sitting on the edge of it, beneath the lamp.
I don’t know where to start.
With any of this shit, really.
When building a puzzle, you always start with the border, since those pieces are the easiest to pick out and put together. From there, depending on the puzzle, you either separate by color or you use the picture as reference, if there’s something unique to pinpoint. Regardless, you hit what’s most obvious first, breaking it down into manageable chunks. Divide and conquer.
Start at the border and work our way in.
I push the needle through the side of the bear, to close a hole some fluffy guts are spilling out of.
Seven sits down, still watching. “You ever sewn before, boss?”
“Sewed someone’s lips shut before when they wouldn’t shut the fuck up,” I say. “Why? Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”
I’m asking that genuinely.
I’m trying to not screw this all up.
“Your technique is a bit... unusual.”
“What’s so unusual about it?”
I’m shoving it in and pulling it back out, winding round and round and round as I go, forcing the hole closed. Makes sense, right?
“You’re using kind of like a double overcasting basting stitch instead of a blind stitch... or maybe a ladder stitch would’ve been better.”
“What are you going on about?” I ask, brow furrowing. “Stitches are stitches, are they not?”
“Well... sure, I guess.”
“You guess.”
“It’s just that certain stitches work better in different circumstances—like, for instance...”
He rambles, babbling on and on and on about stitches and fabrics and techniques, while I just keep shoving the needle through the bear, back and forth, until the hole is no more. Poof. I cut the thread and knot it the best I can, looking up at Seven when I’m done.
Not even kidding. He’s still talking.
“How the hell do you know all that?” I ask, cutting him off. “Get your rocks off in home ec? Spend your free time whittling out coats for the homeless?”
He laughs. “The wife is a seamstress.”
“No shit? Didn’t think she had a job anymore since you got set loose and started making money again.”
“She still does a bit of work here and there,” he says. “Mends costumes for a couple shows when they need it. She enjoys it, and well, not gonna turn down extra money, you know?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, examining my sewing job before moving on to the next hole, making Seven rethread the needle for me.
Extra money is a bullshit concept, when it comes down to it. For most people, the more they make, the more they spend. Bigger houses, fancier cars, more recognizable brand names. It isn’t like they get to a point where they think, ‘yep, I’ve got enough now, I’ll pass on the rest.’ Which means there’s no such thing as extra. Money is money. It’s a necessary evil.
“Speaking of money,” I say, sewing up another hole. “I met with Jameson and a few of his guys over in Midtown yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve driven you.”
“Wasn’t necessary,” I say. “I just had Jameson swing through and pick me up. Got the guns from storage unloaded. Banked about a hundred thousand. His guy wants more, though, so I’m going to have another shipment put together in the next few days and have it brought up.”
Seven lets out a low whistle. “More? That’s a lot of guns for one man. What’s he doing, starting a war?”