Page 57 of Saxon

He takes a step backward, grinning at me. "Fine piece of ass with attitude as big as her sysky."

"Saxon," I call, without taking my eyes off of Luka, "can you get to business and get this overgrown creep outta my face before I carve his fuckin' face right the fuck off?"

Saxon slides between us, effortlessly guiding Luka away from me. "Luka, my friend. I brought you a 1968 Ferrari Daytona. The girl is mine. Fuck with her again, and I'll let her deal with you her way, yeah?"

Luka glances down at Saxon, eyes narrowing. "Is like that, hah?"

"She's a live one, buddy. You'd be lucky to get away with all your parts."

Luka shrugs. "I prefer my women a little more agreeable, maybe. You teach her manners, send her to me."

I lunge at him. "I'll teach you some fuckin' manners, motherfucker!"

Saxon catches me around the middle and swings me around. "Tone it down a touch, maybe?" He whispers in my ear.

"I'll tone you down, fuckface," I snarl at Saxon, not at all quietly.

The tall man’s cocky, chauvinistic attitude has pissed me off, and the rage is not at all faked.

Luka just laughs. "You have tiger by the toe I think."

"Tail, dumbfuck," I mutter. "Tiger by the tail."

Instantly, a golden gun barrel is pressed against my forehead. "How many languages do you speak, bitch? If more than seven, how many I speak, you can call me dumbfuck. Otherwise, the manners I teach you will be a hole in your lovely fuckink skull."

I shrug as if I’m not about to piss my knickers. "Fair enough. My bad, dog."

"I am no dog. You are dog."

"It's a term. Like bro."

He nods. "Oh. Stupid American slang. I never understand it. I learn one word, then no one say it anymore, and I have to learn a new one."

Saxon shoots me a look, which I choose to read as "You're doing great, keep it up," but which I think he meant as "Seriously, bitch, bring it down a notch before he actually shoots you."

Luka waves with the barrel of the giant golden revolver at an area on the other side of the room—fifty or so feet away—which features a huge glass-front refrigerator, an L-shaped section of counters and cabinets, a stovetop, and a free-standing keg with a gun.

"Help yourself, lady."

I swagger over and browse the fridge—beer, beer, beer, vodka, vodka, vodka, iced coffee, Diet Coke. I snag a Coke and return to the business side of the room. Luka lights another cigarette from the first and gestures at Saxon with it.

"So. What is business?"

Saxon hesitates, as if considering how much to say. "I surfaced, and they found me."

"Of course. You fucked them. They get their hands on you, you will beg for death."

"Which I'd like to avoid." He glances at me. "Startin' to feel like maybe I got somethin’ to live for, suddenly."

Luka follows his gaze, smirks. "Sysky like that?" He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, cigarette smoke curling and twisting. "Joke, just a joke." His expression sours into serious. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I think they have a tracker in me."

"You think?"

Saxon shrugs. "They know exactly where I am."

Luka curses in Ukrainian. "And you lead them to me?"