Page 56 of Love Her

Icalled Milo the second I got back into my truck. “Found him?”

“Rhaim! I was just thinking about you—this a good line?”

“The best,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. But if I wasn’t allowed to hurt Marcus or his wonder twinsyetI needed to bust someone else’s head.

“Fantastic—so—your guy’s actually downstream from me.”

“Huh.” I wrung the steering wheel after putting my truck into drive.

“I hear you,” Milo said, with a snort. “Don’t worry, we aren’t close—and I’m not interested in keeping him swimming, if he’s on your radar. Plus—none of my men are supposed to deal any heavier stuff, so if that’s why you’re after him?—”

“It is. It’s personal. For a friend. Doped up his kid.”

“Well then—good to know. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. I won’t stand in your way, and I’ll make sure my coast is clear, if you just tell me what night. I’d prefer you not disrupt the rest of my position though?—”

“I won’t. It’s gonna be a white glove situation. Send me the addresses for his shifts, I’d rather meet him in the wild, that’s all I need to go on.”

“Perfect,” Milo said, and I heard his texts come in. “And, uh, not that I’m doubting you, but—this is it? For real?”

I smirked as I drove back to the office. “You sad your life’s not worth more than a shitheel’s last known?”

“No—I’m just thinking God might exist. Maybe my Missus’s prayers done me right.”

“Then have her pray for me too, Milo. And don’t worry—I’ll never call you again.”

I madeit back to my desk, changed suits in my office, and shuffled papers across my desk according to priority, while avoiding anyone. There were a few rogue questions in my inbox from investors that popped up like so many Whack-a-Moles, but they were easily answered, or occasionally ignored, if they were too stupid for me to bother to respond to.

And then after that, I ate dinner in, waiting for the rest of the building to clear out—because I’d rather kill time staying on top of stuff, than pacing at my place, waiting for a delivery.

But I was watching it in transit, and by the time I got there, it was waiting for me.

Sable rang me up at once. “You gonna burn that packaging for me?”

“Is it covered in fingerprints?”

“Worse. Girl-juice. I was fingerbanging my girlfriend on the way to the FedEx.”

I snorted, and pulled out my omnipresent knife to open it up. Inside the cardboard box was a smaller black one—matchbook-sized—with a sticky dab on one side, protected by a square of plastic.

“You sure this is gonna work?” I asked her.

“If you get it close enough, absolutely.”

“No problem there.” I had a wad of hundreds in my pocket. I could’ve made any New Yorker in a fifty-foot radius my friend tonight.

“I’ll be standing by!”

“You know when you sound that eager, I begin to wonder whether or notyoushould payme.”

Sable snickered, and then hung up.

I had a suit Isabelle had gotten me once for a Halloween where I’d decided to lean in to the whole mobster thing—it was so shiny it was practically reflective—and I slicked my hair back, and dug out some hideous piece of jewelry her family had given me. I usually went out on my missions as incognito as possible, but tonight the whole point was to stand out, to look like a mark who had money to lose. I went back out around ten which was, if I was right, the time when young people began to make stupid decisions on weekdays.

There was hardly any line outside the club, as befit it being a Monday. I flashed the bouncer a hundred to skip, and after that, I was inside, where a small herd of women who looked a lot like Lia were dancing hard, courtesy of whatever drugs they’d taken—and I wondered if I’d ever be able to see my moth like that.

Not drugged—but—casual. Happy.

Free.

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