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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PERRY

I almost choke on my tongue as I look over at Luther filling the hall. From the corner of my eyes, I catch Arlie slipping the gun into the holster under her jacket as Everett shifts back a step.

Somehow, Luther looks bigger from out behind the bar, all short brown hair and beard, basically the same length, so it’s impossible to tell where his head ends and his jawline begins.

A trickle of fear slips into my stomach.

I force a smile and pretend to glance behind me. “Perry? Who’s Perry?”

From beside me, Arlie groans. I don’t look, just back up a bit further.

“You know what? If I see this Perry fellow, I’ll let you know.”

Luther’s lips twitch. “Get in my office.”

“See, I would, but I get the feeling that if I go in there, I won’t be coming out again, and I sort of like it out here. Fresh air, nice lighting, ruthless thugs who probably want me dead … what’s not to love?”

“I’m not playing,” Luther tells me.

“Not in the mood? Too bad. I’ll come back later, then—” I go to turn and run face-first into a brick wall. Well, a person who feels like a brick wall. And I mean, I’m not a short guy, so the fact I can motorboat this behemoth’s chest gives me pause. In a race, I could probably have him if I wasn’t wearing jeans and my thighs weren’t torn up beyond reason, but in a fight? The only short odds I have is dying.

I pat behemoth’s terrifyingly wide man titties. “Are you, umm, in the mood to play?”

At his grunt, I shrink back from him.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Office, Perry.”

I nod so fast my head is in danger of coming off. “Ohhh, you said Perry . I thought you meant the other Perry. Of course I’ll go into your windowless dungeon room with you and not at all fear for my life.” My throat is closing around my words, but there’s no way out now, and on a scale of dumb to probably should have made a plan, I’m on one side, and Lars is laughing at me from the other.

“Both of you too,” Luther adds, stare shooting lasers Arlie and Everett’s way. Unlike me, the two of them come without arguing, and I guess the whole stoic thing was what I was missing in my aborted career. As it is, I’m holding back from begging for my life, and I’m mostly only able to do that because my voice has failed me.

They don’t need to know that though. I’ll let them assume I’m channeling their super-serious vibes.

I’m first into Luther’s office. It’s big enough for his desk, a chair, and four different computers lining the back wall on top of old-school metal filing cabinets. I have no idea about any of his shady business stuff, but none of that looks like a normal, average bar owner’s setup.

I take the small chair in front of his desk and realize that was a mistake a moment later when Arlie and Everett hover, standing behind me, and Luther remains standing on the other side of his desk.

I’m a literal sitting fucking duck right now. Good to know.

Instead of shrinking down, I wipe my palms off on my jeans and rock onto the chair’s back legs .

“This is a cute little group huddle. Are we going to wash each other’s backs in the shower later?”

Luther sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I keep telling myself this is my fault.”

“Awesome.” I bring my hands together. “Agreed. Can I go now?”

He reaches into his top drawer and wordlessly sets a gun on the desk.

The heavy metal meeting wood makes a clunk I feel so deep in my gut fear tries to shoot out of my ass.

“Luther …” Arlie says in a warning voice. “You really want to do that? Over him ?”

My first instinct is to be offended that I’m not worth murder, and then I remember that I don’t actually want to be worth that. I want them to decide I’m a worthless little gutter rat so I can go home to Sir Squeakerton and get back to disappointing Margot at every turn.

I love disappointing her, I’m good at it, and if I’m allowed to go free, I’ll make sure it happens every day for the rest of our lives.

I think that’s how bargaining with the universe works?

Maybe I should have asked Lars to check my horoscope before I left?

Luther’s rubbing his jaw, and this whole silent Bond villain thing is working for him. It makes his head-face meld slightly more sinister.

“It was an easy hit,” he says. “I gave you three sitting ducks. You had to have actually wanted to botch the job to fuck this up.” He cuts a look toward Arlie.

“Why would you give him this job in the first place?” she asks before he can direct anything her way.

“He knew about us. It was either bring him in, or kill him. This is what I get for trying to be nice. You said he was ready.”

“No. I said he could make any shot.”

“And yet …” Luther spreads his hands out to the side. “He didn’t. He let his guy go free when a toddler could have made the sh ot and then thought he could steal from me and take his payday anyway.”

Everett’s disappointed groan stings because yeah, yeah, I get it. Not my finest moment.

“About that,” I say before he can list any other of my idiocies. “I have the money, and I thought I could, you know, pay it back. Call it even? Then we can pretend like this whole thing never happened.”

His—I think blue? I dunno, it’s dark in here—eyes bore into mine. “You have my money?”

I go to confirm that, then stop. “ M-most of it?”

“Most of my money?” His eyebrows creep higher. “And you think giving me back most of the money you stole from me will call it even.”

“No, I thought giving you back all of it would have us call it even. I’m happy to sign a non-compete and everything. It didn’t even occur to me that taking it would be stealing from you , just your client, and I’m really sorry, Luther. Truly. If I’d known you were the one paying for the job?—”

Arlie’s jab to my shoulder is painful. “Stop talking.”

He’s still staring, and his lack of blinking is getting creepy.

“Well, someone needs to fill the silence,” I mutter.

Luther’s lips quirk. “I’ve always liked you.”

A twinge of hope kicks in. “This is what I’ve been telling everyone.”

“Everyone?” He perches on the side of his desk and looks me over. “Who’s everyone?”

I’m about to say Lars and St. Clare when my brain throws up an alert. If Luther is the one I stole from, does that mean he’s the one who wanted to kill St. Clare? Wow, this thing keeps on getting weirder.

If that’s the case, letting him know that we’re hanging out and playing house isn’t a good move. See? Fuck you, Lars. I’m smarter than you think.

I wave a hand toward Arlie and Everett. “ Everyone . All my friends here. They’ve been telling me for years that you hate me, Luther, but I knew better.”

“Did you also know better than to steal from me?”

Shit, we’re back on that again. What is it with people and not being able to accept an apology? “In my defense, it was a lot of money, and I had a lot of bills, and I was sort of sick of Margot thinking I’m a fuckup all the time.”

“So you thought pretending to kill a man and taking my money was a good way to prove to your sister that you’re not a fuckup.”

I sigh and scrub my hand through my hair. When he puts it like that, it sounds a little ridiculous. “It’s not like I thought it all the way through.”

“No, because if you did, you wouldn’t have ended up here.”

I clear my throat, gaze shooting to the gun and then back to Luther. “And where is … here … exactly? Are we talking physically here? Or metaphorically reaching the end of my life here ?”

He tilts his head from one side to the next. “Well, that’s up to you.”

“It is?” Another twinge of hope hits me. If it’s up to me to choose between whether I live or die, it’s a simple decision.

“Of course. You wanted to make things even, so let’s do it.”

See? Doodle dad. He’s a perfectly reasonable guy outside of all this life-of-crime, Walter White business. “Thank you. I know I don’t have it all on me, but I thought we could work out a payment plan or?—”

“No payment plan.”

That derails my line of thinking. “Okay, but I don’t have the money right now. But I could get it. I’m sure I could.”

The more I talk, the more Luther shakes his head, and the more my heartbeat is trying to strangle me.

“I don’t care about the money,” he says.

“Really?” I’m waiting for the punchline. “But what about all the stealing and getting out your gun and?—”

“Let’s just say I have a very bad man who paid me for a job that wasn’t done. That makes me look bad.” His voice rises to a crack of a whip in the silent, tiny office. “We work with the honesty policy here for a reason. It means no evidence, the people I recruit are people who I know will follow through, and now you’re making me question it all.”

“If you trusted me, how do you know he’s not dead?”

“I’m not new at this. New hires are monitored, and I get the confirmation they’ve completed the jobs they’ve been assigned. I’ve never had a problem. Until now.”

“Wh-what do you want from me?”

“I. Want. Him. Dead.”

And even though I know exactly who he means, my stupid mouth moves anyway. “Who?”

“St. fucking Clare. Bring him to me. Alive or dead, I don’t fucking care. I’ll shoot him myself if it means the job is done right, and I’ll even let your incompetent ass keep the money if it makes this mess go away. I told my client it was done, and the second they find out it wasn’t, every single person in this fucking bar is at risk. They won’t stop to ask questions about who fucked up.”

“I … I don’t understand,” I say, mouth moving only a fraction faster than my thoughts. I’m gripping my beaded bracelet like it’ll somehow protect me. “What did St. Clare do that’s made him enemy number one? Why would anyone want him killed in the first place? It’s not like he’s selling meth to children or drowning kittens.”

“He lied to the wrong person and looked into things he shouldn’t have.”

“ St. Clare did?” None of that sounds like him. Given how legitimately shocked he was about the whole being wanted thing, it’s not lining up. “Are they sure they don’t have the wrong guy?”

“They’re sure.” Luther’s eyes slowly narrow. “You know where he is.”

“I don’t!”

“Yes. You do.”

“How would I know where he is? I barely knew who he was when I tried to kill him in the first place.”

“I gave you simple, fast jobs with unsuspecting targets. It should have been an easy payday for you, and instead, you shat the bed.”

“Well, that’s disgusting.”

“I’m giving you a second chance, and you better see that as the gift from God that it is. I’m giving you exactly one week. One week, and I want that fuck here. And if my client figures out that you didn’t do what you were supposed to, I won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus. Understand?”

That I have one week to figure out how the hell to get me and St. Clare out of this mess? “Got it. Who is your client?”

Luther ignores me and turns his attention to Arlie and Everett. “And if I find out either of you has helped him, you’ll be next on my list.”

“Got it.”

They leave, behemoth glaring after them, and I’m stuck on my chair, feeling very much like Luther’s cozy office is more like a coffin for people he doesn’t like.

It’s just lucky he likes me.

I guess.

I’ve never known lucky to feel quite like this though.