Page 50 of Himbo Hitman
He ignores the question. “My point is that if these people are willing to kill you over money and me over a nightclub, you really think they’re going to forgive your lie and put you on a payment plan?”
“Worth a shot.”
“Sure. You let me know how that works out for you.”
“I do see an issue with that plan though.”
“Only one?”
“If I admit to not killing you, they’ll have it confirmed that someone else needs to kill you. So then we’re back to square one of you being hunted, and I’m starting to think I like you better alive than dead.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
Why? That’s a fair question, so it probably shouldn’t be this much of an issue to answer it. I think back on the little happy bubbles I’d get whenever he walked into the cafe and we started our back-and-forth. He’s a fun guy. Friendly. Very chatty. And let’s face it, lips that rare really shouldn’t be wasted and left to rot. “Well, you’re funny,” I tell him.
“You like me better alive because I’m funny?”
“It’s a good quality to have.”
St. Clare turns his back on the large window in front of us and tucks his hands into his pockets. “What else?”
“What are other good qualities?”
“That I have, yes.”
I swallow, worried I’m going to say the wrong thing because everything sounds like the wrong thing. “You have a brother.”
“Not a quality. Try again.”
“Ah … and a Lars.”
His lips twitch and he shakes his head. “Qualities are like … the way you seem too big for a room. Your enthusiasm and broad shoulders and easy smile.”
The smile comes alive before I can stop it. “Your confidence,” I find myself saying.
“Confidence?” St. Clare sounds surprised. “My brother has always been the confident one. Nothing gets to him.”
“Shit. If that’s the case, I’m scared to meet him.”
Some of the light leaves his face. “Ifyou meet him.”
“Are you embarrassed by me?”
“No. I’m beginning to think he’s dead.”
My heart hurts at that. If there’s one way to kill a conversation—pun intended—that’s it. I have no idea how I’m supposed to reply to that, except it feels like he needs some comfort and hope, and those are two things I’m pretty fucking good at.
I reach over and give his shoulder a squeeze. It’s bigger than I expected, and it’s sort of weird to be touching him. Sure, I did that night I patched him up, but it wasn’t like this. There were too many competing emotions, and he was rudely bleeding everywhere to pay attention to anything else.
“We’ll find him,” I say, squeezing a bit tighter.
He snorts. “I thought you were going to work on a payment plan?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop helping you.” I’m struck with an idea. “Maybe Luther will give me a name.”
“A name?”
“Sure.” I’m already getting excited over the idea. “If he tells me who organized the job, we can go straight to the source and find out what’s up.”
