Page 67 of A Thousand Cuts

“Anything. You could ask me for anything.”

Piercing dark eyes stared at him. Through him. As if judging him and weighing his words for any hint of a lie. Then he nodded over Fix’s shoulder and Ares stepped up, offering Fix a piece of paper.

Fix took it warily, casting his gaze back to Cane, who gave nothing away. “That’s my price.”

Fix took a deep breath before opening it up, scanning the words before looking up incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

Cane smirked. “You said anything. That’s what I want.”

Fix looked back down at the paper, rereading the words before glancing back up at a thump from the table. It was a brown folder with a stain of something suspiciously red in the corner. O’Fuckbag was written on the front in bold lettering.

Cane drummed his bruised knuckles over the surface of it. “Your choice.”

It wasn’t one.

“Fine.”

Cane smiled sharply and then pushed the folder forward. “Nice doing business with you.”

Fix pocketed the note before grabbing the folder with both hands.

“It’s all in there. Childhood, jail—with firsthand accounts from yours truly—associates, where he goes to get his toes pedicured.” Cane reached for a tumbler and splashed a fifth of vodka into it. “Hart’s rubbed off on me. I’m quite organized now.”

Fix snorted, but he couldn’t deny Hart’s influence everywhere around him. In every space, in every action Cane made, Hart was there.

“Do you know anything about Liam’s case?” he asked finally. “The curses or the stalker.”

Cane took a slow sip before putting his tumbler down with a clink. “No. But I can put some feelers out there. Think of it as a friends and family discount.”

“How generous,” Fix said dryly, then he sighed. Cane was a tough beast, but he wasn’t all bad. “Thank you.”

Cane curled his lip at the sincerity. “Better leave before I take it back.”

Fix shook his head, giving a lazy half salute and a nod before turning on his heel and brushing by Ares on his way to the door.

“Oh, Fix, I forgot.”

Fix glanced back, barely quick enough to catch the small glass jar Cane had just tossed to him. It tinkled and rattled, and Fix squinted to see the contents, eyes widening when he recognized what they were.

Teeth. Those were teeth.

He hadn’t been joking.

“Now that’s everything,” Cane said, amusement written in every word.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Fix told him.

“Like you didn’t think about doing the same the minute Liam mentioned that fucker had laid hands on him.”

Fix couldn’t refute it.

“I take care of what’s mine. How about you?” Cane said—a challenge and boast all wrapped into one, perfectly placed to get under Fix’s skin.

Fix pressed his lips together and squeezed the bottle tightly in his hand before leaving.

He ran into Hart entering just as he was exiting. He was perfectly dressed in a dark suit and polished from the tip of his gelled head to his shiny loafers. A small lunch bag was in his hand.

Hart’s eyes went wide. “Fix? What are you doing here?”