Page 10

Can’t hide talent.

On the way past the training area, I give a punching bag a little taste of what my opposing Royal is going to get, jabbing it with a series of lightning-fast, effortless punches. Will it be South Side? Fuck, a match between me and Rathbone would decimate this city with the flood of ensuing wet panties. I’d beat him.Naturally.But then again, maybe it’s East End. A rematch with Pace would be just the thing, and I practically get drunk on the thought of feeding Dicker Ashby a few of his sparkling Prince teeth.

It doesn’t matter, though. Either way, it’s going to be the match of the goddamn year.

Pausing at Mama B’s door, I smooth down my shirt, hiding the deadnettle behind my back before rapping on the wood. When I hear her greeting, I sweep in, presenting her the purple flower.

“Mama B,” I say, whistling. “You look fine today.”

Still behind her desk, she gives me—and the flower—a not altogether flattering look. “Boy, you’d better not be on drugs again.”

Undeterred, I lean over the desk, tucking the flower neatly into her cup of pens. “I’m high on life, Miss B. Well, and the promise of glorious, crimson violence.” I bring my hands together in a resounding clap, giving my palms a rub. “So who am I fighting?”

Pushing to her feet, she reaches down, lifting something heavy from behind her desk. “This little fucker.”

I pause before leaning back, totally baffled at the sudden appearance of a cage. The strange little creature inside of it inspects me in much the same way, like I’m similarly as unexpected. Looking at Mama B, I point at the cage. “That’s a bird.”

“Dumbass,” it squawks, wings giving an abrupt, clattering flutter. “Suck my balls.”

I lift a fluttering hand to my chest, giving it an affronted stare down. “That’s ashit-talkingbird.”

“Yes, she certainly fucking is,” Mama B says, bracelets jangling as she struggles to balance the cage. “I have a little eye procedure that’s going to put me out of commission for a hot minute, and since getting my daughter to trust me again hinges on the welfare of this shit-talking, little ass-fuck bird, I need someone to watch her for the day.”

I stare at it, totally at a loss. “And your first thought was me?”

“My first thought was Simon, but he’s still taking his finals. My second thought was Greta, but same issue. My third thought was Sara, but she’s with a client all day. My fourth thought was your Duchess because she managed to take care of a cat, so she has more chops than most of you, but she’s escorting Nick to something in North Side.” This goes on for quite a while, and it’s actually a little impressive how many people Mama B knows who are just too busy to play birdysitter. But then it keeps going. And going. And going. “My thirty-fifth thought was that hobo down at the end of sixteenth. You know, the one who alwayssmells like fish and cinnamon? Go down that list about a dozen more, and then there’s you, Remy.”

I blink. “I’m inspired by your confidence in me.”

“You’re inspired by the threat I’m about to make.” She all but shoves the handle of the cage into my hand, jamming a pointed, glittery acrylic nail in my face. “If anything happens to this bird,” she growls, bracelets clinking with every punch of her finger, “I will cut your balls off and shove them down your throat.”

“Suck my balls,” the bird screeches. And then a pretty, trilled, “Wiiiicker.”

“Wait.” My eyes narrow. “Whose bird is this?”

Mama B starts looking a little shifty. “She belongs to Pace Ashby.”

My jaw drops in outrage. “I’m not going to watch his bird. He stabbed me!”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t exaggerate, you big baby. Hecutyou.”

“It was a stab!” I grab the hem of my shirt, tugging it up. “Look at this, he messed up my frat letters! I’m lucky he missed my liver!”

She gives me a look, like I’m an idiot. The nerve. “Your liver’s on the other side.”

“Then my gallbladder,” I reply.

“It’s also on the other side.”

“My appendix!”

She pauses, brow furrowing. “Weirdly enough, that’s also on the other side.”

I gape down at the stab scar. “Jesus fuck, do I have any organs on the right side?”

“Just the organ where men store their baby tears.” She walks to the file cabinet and grabs the bag sitting on top of it. “You call yourself West End, but you can’t take a little competitive stabbing? Here.” She thrusts the bag into my chest until I cradleit with my free arm. “Feed her this. I’ll come to your place to pick her up at eleven tonight. No sooner—no later.”

I heft the cage into the air, peering into black, beady eyes.