Page 67 of Jace
Boy kibble: it’s a trendy name for dumb fuckers who can’t just call it a bowl of ground beef and rice.
But it reveals his cousin follows social media trends for his business. He’s not such a Luddite anymore. Wonder if he posts? Wonder if you can see his desktop server right behind him when he does?
Mental note: tell Ruby to scour his cousin’s social media.
I dish more seething silence while this fucker bounces like a schoolboy at recess, nodding toward my chest. “So whaddya bench? You look elite. Three hundred? Four hundred pounds?”
“I don’t lift furniture.”
“Nah, man.” He laughs like I’m clueless. “I mean, whaddya lift?”
I grin. “Dead bodies.”
His face falls. Shocked. Scared. I don’t stop grinning like a lion with a bloody carcass in its mouth until he laughs nervously. “Ah, bruh, you’re kidding.”
“No. Kids and women are off-limits. But other animals are fair game.” He shuffles. I smirk at his shoes. “Nice Crocs.”
They’re yellow like his belly, the fucking coward.
It starts to register on his boyish face: we’re not friends.
He won’t stop jutting his narrow chin, as if the whole world has to follow his toy train of thought. This time, he focuses on the empty front parlor. “Where’s everyone?”
Yep, he’s observant.Noted.
“At a funeral.”
“Who died?”
“My ability to give a shit.”
If he suspects for one minute that I care about anything, that I love Vivian and she’s fucking mine, he’ll be on to us.
He gives up, almost pissed off. “My wife upstairs?”
Goddamn, it takes every cell in my body not to pounce and rip his face off with my teeth.
She’ll be my wife, you pathetic?—
“Don’t care. My wings will be here in five minutes, and you’ll be leaving in four. We’re closing.”
His ability to swagger up the stairs like he’s got balls is thwarted by his khakis sagging below his cartoon boxers.
I appreciate the prison history of that fashion statement: your pants sag because they confiscated your belt. It’s a reality this privileged man-child has no fucking clue about.
I hit my remote, advancing the cameras until I can watch the one aimed at the door to Vivian’s studio.
And there he is, grabbing his crotch in her doorway.
And there’s my Smokeshow, about to burn his ass for intel.
CHAPTER TWENTY
VIVIAN
“Oh, shit!”I jump, grabbing my chest like I didn’t expect to see him. “What are you doing here?”
David scans the room. “Ditto, sugar pie. You weren’t at The Mercier.”
