Page 41 of Delta

I roll my eyes. "Fuckboys tend to employ a particular kind of smirk. Some may call it a smolder. You look at us with a cocky little smirk that says you know you're hot shit and that it's only a matter of time before we give in to the inevitable and beg you to dick us down."

"Bleh." It's a non-word sound of disgust. "I fuckin' hate that phrase. Dunno why, I just fuckin' hate it."

I laugh. "To be honest, I don't like it either. But I only use it when I’m being funny or sarcastic."

“Or insulting."

"You're insulted by me calling you a fuckboy?"

"Nah, love. I'm insulted that you think what happened on the train was somethin’ I expected because I'm helping you. If I thought you thought that, I wouldn't have so much as looked at you." A tip of his head to one side. "But that said, calling me a fuckboy is an insult. Just because it's true don't make it not an insult."

"You're not denying it."

"Nah. I like sex, I'm good at it, and I've never fucked around with the whole 'feelings' and 'relationship' shite. I believe in havin' a good time and makin' sure expectations are set out clearly from the jump." He looks at me. "What about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"Are you workin' up to tellin' me that givin' me a gobbie on the train wasn't really like you? That you're not really that type of girl?"

"A gobbie? Really right now?"

He adopts a nose-in-the-air, hoity-toity expression. "Well, excuse me for using such crude terminology, your highness." He even does a remarkable high-brow accent. "I meant performing the act of fellatio."

I can't help a laugh. "I don't mind slang, but I draw the line at 'gobbie'. It feels juvenile to me."

He snorts. "A fair point, that is."

"So." I look around pointedly. "Again, where are we going? Because it seems like we're just sort of strolling around aimlessly."

"That's cause we're bein' followed." His tone is as breezy as ever. When I go to look around, he briefly squeezes my hand hard. "Nah, nah, don't look. Jesus. I clocked the clumsy fuckwits ages ago. They picked us up in the station." He stops walking abruptly and yanks out his cell phone, putting it to his ear and carrying on a fake conversation—it's all a ruse to give him an excuse to pivot in the street. "Yeah, yeah, got it. Right—right." To me, in a low voice, then. "Two fat blokes in trackies."

I spot them immediately when I turn sideways on the sidewalk to face him, as if waiting for him to finish his call. Like the assholes back in Berlin, these guys are on the wrong side of middle age sporting beer bellies, heavy stubble, and matching tracksuits, the halfway-zipped tops of which bulge obviously with guns.

"Jesus, whoever is doing the hiring has a typecasting issue."

Rush glances at me. "Say what?"

"The guys in Zermatt, Berlin, and now here? They're all basically the same dude."

He snickers. "Oh, yeah. Hired guns is all. The sort of chaps who'll sell out their own grandma for a handful of euros. They're in plentiful supply, unfortunately." He grins. "Means I won't be bothered merkin' 'em." In his accent, "bothered" comes across with a 'V' sound instead of a ‘th’.

I frown at him. "Merk?"

"Do in. Off." He does a finger gun, complete with a soft "pew" noise. "Murder 'em."

"Oh."

Rush pretends to end his call, pockets his phone, takes my hand, and sets off again the way we were going.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Dunno yet. Lead 'em on a merry chase till they're knackered, and then find a likely spot to do a nice little renovation on their skulls."

"So if I'm interpreting you correctly, you mean to tire them out by walking around a lot, lure them into an alley, and shoot them?"

"Right-oh, love."

"Can’t we just skip right to the murdering?” I suggest. "As much as I'd love to explore the city of Lyon on foot, that nap on the train was the only sleep I've had in forty-eight hours, unless you count a good twelve hours of being drugged unconscious."