Page 76 of Puck
“I think we did.”
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
The room phone rang, and Puck answered it. “Yo . . . oh, hey boss. Yeah, we’ll come down . . . news, huh? What kind of news? Fine, fine, be that way. Yeah, give us a few minutes. There’s still grub? Sweet. Yeah, see you.” He hung up, and I waited for the explanation. “We gotta head downstairs. Harris is gathering everyone for a team breakfast slash debriefing slash news update.”
“But he wouldn’t say what the news was?”
“Nope. Asshole. Said he didn’t feel like repeating himself half a dozen times, so he was calling a war council.”
That made my heart skip a few beats. “War council? Does that mean it’s not over?”
He shrugged and then stood up. “Nah, not necessarily. But he didn’t sound worried.”
“Oh.”
There was a knock at the door, and Puck wrapped a towel around his waist to answer it. I stayed hidden in the bedroom as he spoke to whoever it was, and then I heard the door close again. Puck appeared with a stack of parcels wrapped in tissue paper and tied off with twine.
“Apparently Roth had his people get some clothes for us, since neither of us have shit. The majordomo or whatever that cat’s title is said these should fit, but they could only guess at our sizes.”
He set down the two packages, handing one to me. It had my name written on the tissue paper in neat, precise handwriting. I opened it and found a new set of clothes from the skin out, everything with the tags still on. Bra and panties in a matching set, a cream knee-length sweater dress with a wide green belt, and a pair of Toms flats in a matching shade of green. Whoever it was that chose the clothes had pretty damn amazing taste, I had to say. Puck’s clothes weren’t exactly what I’d consider his natural style—fitted, faded jeans with a bit of stretch to the denim, and a green polo shirt, with a brown belt, and new boot socks. Not his style, probably, being far too preppy/pretty boy for his taste, but I thought he looked amazing.
“I don’t think I’ve worn a shirt with a collar since I left the FBI,” he remarked, tugging the shirt on. “Don’t miss it.”
“You probably had to wear business casual when you worked for the Bureau, huh?” I asked, donning my own clothes.
He nodded. “Dress slacks, a button down, and a tie. I fucking hated it.”
I buttoned the three buttons of his polo for him. “Well, maybe not your style, but you look nice.”
He eyed me as I buckled the belt high around my waist. “You look positively edible.”
I swept past him toward the bathroom, winking at him. “You’ve already eaten me, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I’m feeling a bit peckish again.”
I found a brush in one of the drawers and tugged it through my hair. “War council, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah. And breakfast.”
I emerged from the bathroom and took his hand, and we exited the room together. “So, war council and breakfast, then we go for a ride or a drive out in the countryside, and then we come back here and fuck each other’s brains out.” I bumped him with my shoulder. “Sound like a plan?”
“Yeah, except you forgot one part.”
“What’s that?”
“We go for a drive out in the countryside, and we fuck each other’s brains out in the grass somewhere, and then we come back here and fuck each other’s brains out again.”
“Oh,” I said, laughing. “That’s a lot of fucking. We might need a picnic in that case. To keep our strength up.”
* * *
Colbieand I found the dining room after more than a few wrong turns, and we were very obviously the last ones there. Most everyone was nearly done eating already, although it looked like no one had gotten any more sleep than Colbie and I had, and for the same reasons.
With all the fucking happenings under this roof last night, it was a wonder the whole place didn’t just collapse.
We’d barely sat down when two staff members brought plates piled high with food and set them in front of us, and then returned to pour us each coffee. There were plates of bacon, plates of pancakes, plates of scrambled eggs, English muffins, toast, bagels, fruit . . . a shitload of food.
While we were eating, Harris stood up, tossed back the last of his coffee, and then set it on the table. “Listen up, y’all. I’ve been in contact with Lear and Anselm. Our boy Cain is in the wind again. Lear tracked him down to a high-rise in Belgrade, but by the time Anselm could get there with his rifle, Cain was gone, and now he’s gone dark. Anselm and Ivar collaborated with Interpol and tracked down what was left of his trafficking setup. There was a warehouse in Marseilles full of women, another in Istanbul, and a third in Marrakech. There were a good three or four hundred women between the three locations, and the capture of the assholes running the warehouses led to hits on various other smaller depots and safe houses. His shit is shut down for now. That’s the good news.”