Page 39 of Bitter’s Sweet

Which is a damn stupid direction for my head to go.

She shoves the phone away. “I handled him before.”

“Him.”

Her eyes close for half a second. Gotcha.

When she opens them, the sunshine is back on her face, but it is painted over something cracked. “I meant whoever is texting me. Could be spam.”

“Spam don’t ride a Dyna past funeral schools wearing Reaper scraps.”

“That is oddly specific spam.”

“Don’t make jokes because you’re scared.”

“Don’t tell me what to do because you’re bossy.”

“I ain’t bossy. I’m right.”

“Those are related conditions.”

“Who is he?”

She crosses her arms. “Who was Lena?”

Every thought in my head goes quiet. Mean quiet. She must’ve heard it from Mercy. Damn.

Her face softens instantly like she knows she hit something she didn’t mean to hit. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“I am.”

“You threw a knife because I threw one first. Fair enough.” I step back before I say something uglier. “Don’t ask about Lena.”

“Then don’t ask about him.”

“That ain’t how this works.”

“How does it work?”

“I ask. You answer. I keep you breathing.”

Her laugh comes out small and not very sweet. “That sounds like a relationship, Bitter.”

“It ain’t. “No. Of course not. You don’t do those.”

“Razor used to call making decisions for my protection too.”

There’s the name. “I ain’t him.”

“Then quit using his excuses.”

I hate the way she says it. Not sad. Not bitter. Accepting. Like she already knows better than to expect more from me.

That should be perfect. That should be exactly what I want.

The back door opens before I can decide whether to snarl or apologize, and Mercy steps out with her clipboard in one hand and murder in her eyes.