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RHAIM

“ Y ou look like dogshit, Rhaim,” Nick Samson said, after neatly snapping a cloth napkin out over his lap, at the bistro I’d summoned him to for brunch—and then he leaned forward. “And you smell like ten different kinds of pussy.”

I leaned back, stretching out slightly ominously, like a cat, and began to tap one finger on the edge of a butter knife.

“Or maybe just one kind of pussy, hmm?” he went on, giving me a sly look, as the waiter brought over our coffee. “The sweet kind of pussy that recently got engaged?”

“Speculating on my love life isn’t why I asked you here.” I wanted to settle up with whatever favor Nick required, so that I could count on his votes for Lia on the board—and also because if I didn’t burn off some energy soon, there was a chance I would explode.

“No—but it does explain the timing,” he said, squinting his eyes. “And the reason for your stipulations on our pact.”

“Hmm,” I said, flipping the butter knife up into my hand, and then making a show of flipping and catching it, blade and handle, blade and handle. “And do you think your suppositions should change anything about our deal?”

Nick practically chortled, as the waiter came back, settling down a plate of hash, with a perfectly poached egg on top. “You know who I am, Rhaim. A businessman at heart. You know I have to try.”

“As a businessman myself, I entirely understand,” I said, reaching over to slice through the poached egg, letting the yolk inside ooze down over the small volcano of hash it was on.

Instead of looking horrified by my not-so-veiled-threat—Nicholas Samson the Third probably looked his version of turned on, and I believed that for him, deals were the equivalent of sex.

“Give me one more then. In trade. My votes for your girl for a twofer,” he said, giving me a wolfish grin that shook his jowls.

I licked the yolk off of my knife and set it back down. “Fine.” Killing two people would burn off even more energy. “I have my own stipulations though.”

He nodded, and made a gracious gesture with his fork.

“You tell me both of the names today. I find myself with some unexpected free time—and for a man like me, free time isn’t good.”

Nick chuckled. “I can see that.”

“And two,” I continued. “you don’t press your luck again, Nick. Because if you do—you won’t like who I pick for the third.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise and delight, without an ounce of fear.

Plus or minus fifteen years, a hundred and fifty pounds, and an extra zero or two at the end of his bank accounts, we were cut from quite similar cloth.

“Completely understood,” he promised—and then leaned forward to whisper in my ear.