by Gregory Ashe
“You’re an idiot.”
“An idiot who made you smile.”
“I didn’t smile.”
Somers’s grin got bigger, but he didn’t say anything.
“All right,” the blond man finally said, shoving away the rest of his food. “We’ve got to think strategically.” Hazard barely heard him; a half-eaten biscuit was staring back at Hazard. Half. Half of one of those perfect, heavenly creations. Half just tossed aside, like Somers was going to throw it in the trash. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Somers said, knocking the styrofoam container towards Hazard. “Just eat it before you choke on your own spit.”
Hazard did.
“They’ll have to order one of those shipping containers to bury you.”
“I’m recovering. I need to build up my strength.”
Rolling his eyes, Somers said, “Here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to take a shower. I’m going to make some phone calls. Then we’re going to do it.”
The biscuit went sideways in Hazard’s throat, and he began to choke. When he’d managed to clear his windpipe, he said, “What?”
A rakish grin peeled back the corners of Somers’s mouth.
“You did that on purpose,” Hazard grumbled. “Going to do what?”
“Get Nico back.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. “No.”
“Come on.”
“No. Whatever this is,” he gestured at the phone, “however it works out, it’ll be fine. I don’t need you—”
“Do you want him to break up with you?”
Hazard hesitated. Yesterday, at the Pretty Pretty, he would have said yes. But now—now things were different. Facing into the loneliness, facing into the abyss, Hazard found himself unsure. Things were good with Nico. Things had been really good. So they’d had a fight. So they’d had one little fight. All they had to do was work it out, figure where things went wrong, and things would be good again.
A little voice in his head, though, asked if that were true, then why hadn’t he answered Somers yet?
“That’s what I thought,” Somers said. “So we’ll take it from the top: flowers, a card, reservations at Moulin Vert. I bet if I ask, Cora will call him and get him to meet you there. She’s good with people, she really is. And we’ll have you dressed to the nines, and that poor boy won’t know what hit him.” Somers’s grin tightened. “You’re Emery fucking Hazard. He doesn’t have any idea how lucky he is, but we’re going to change that.”
“Somers, this isn’t—”
But Hazard never finished the objection. Somers’s phone rang, and he glanced at the screen and answered it. His questions were short, sharp, and familiar.
When Somers ended the call, he shrugged and stood. “No time for a shower, I’m afraid, but you’ll probably want to change out of the shirt. It’s a little cold for that.”
Hazard ignored the jab. “What is it?”
“Shooting.”
“This isn’t one of those fake shootings, is it? This isn’t Batsy Ferrell calling because she’s upset about the gun range at Windsor?”
“No. This is the real deal. Looks like a murder.”
“Any ID on the victim?”
Somers blew out a breath. His eyes were very bright. They were bright like the sun flat on top of tropical water. But some of the color had left his face. “Oh yeah, plenty of ID. Just about everybody there ID’d him.”
“Well?”
“The sheriff.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest thanks go out to the following people:
Monique Ferrell, for her enthusiasm, support, and invaluable advice about all things legal. Any mistakes in the book are mine; anything I got right is due to her diligent research and gentle corrections. I’ve learned so much from her expertise, and I’m very grateful, especially for her insight into the human dynamics that underlie the crimes I’m so quick to write about.
Austin Gwin, for his excellent suggestion regarding the book’s ending and for his beautiful articulation of what I need to do in book four—I owe him a major debt of gratitude for putting in words things that I’d been trying to articulate to myself for a long time!
And, as always, the weekenders group, for friendship, encouragement, and for (of all things) putting up with the Duchess when I couldn’t think of anything else.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.