Page 68 of Relapse
“You have snacks and WiFi,” Noir replies calmly.
“Sorry, luxury prison.” She groans violently into the couch cushions. “You two are literally killing my vibe.”
“You almost killed yourself.”
“Allegedly.”
I throw a bottle cap at her head.
She catches it midair smugly.
Little menace.
Her eyes drag slowly across my tattoos.
The chain around my neck.
Then lower.
Problematic.
“Hypothetically,” she says casually from where she’s sprawled across my couch, “if I kissed one of you very nicely, would it improve my current hostage situation at all?”
“No,” me and Noir answer at the exact same time.
She gasps dramatically.
“Wow. Rejected by two emotionally constipated criminals in under three seconds. Character building honestly.”
“You’re restless,” Noir says calmly from the kitchen.
“I’m hot.”
“You’re craving.”
“I’m charming.”
“You’re deflecting.”
Blair narrows her eyes immediately.
“Okay, first of all? Rude. Second, I didn’t realize mandatory therapy sessions came included with the kidnapping.”
Noir ignores that completely.
“You don’t need more drugs right now.”
“I need dopamine.”
“You need sleep.”
“I slept.”
“You passed out.”
She points aggressively from the couch.
“That still counts medically and spiritually.”
