Page 9 of Killer Bones

However, I am determined to show Montez Flores that I don’t give a fuck.

At least, not yet. Torture might change things.

But not this. Not him sitting on a chair chewing his dinner like a cow, fork raised, with a happy sneer appearing. I straighten my shoulders as he lowers his fork to the plate. The metal clatters to the white porcelain.

This room is whiter than white, with a high, domed ceiling, and windows to one side that overlook a night-dark garden. Montez sits at a long table with a flowing haired woman on his right. She tosses that red hair and smiles at me, as if seeing a woman dragged in with a bag on her head is normal business in her universe. It probably is.

That’s sad and disturbing.

This will not end well for me, but I stiffen my back and stand evenly on my feet while Montez dabs at his mouth with a napkin. The floor’s coolness is welcome. The scent of blossoms sweetens the room air, and plants in large ivory-and-gold pots decorate the corners. Several smaller pots sit on a pair of carved tables. We’ve been halted between those tables.

Four men stand in pairs, to either side of the room, near enough to the dining table to reach their master, far enough so as not to disturb his eating, I assume. They’re dressed in casual pants, buttoned shirts, and shoulder-holstered guns. Their stares are as flat as Noah’s and yet, somehow, I’d bet on him beating them to a pulp in a fair fight.

This here is not a fair fight. He’s beside me and still cuffed. My hands are at my front, his are behind him.

“Izabella Fenway, sir,” says one of the two men from our car. The third must have remained with the vehicle.

Montez leans forward, hands palm down on the table. He is dressed in an expensive black shirt and black pants. Maybe he’s aiming for a villain-of-the-month look? “Why is Mr. Smith cuffed?”

“We found him following her, sir. He kissed her, took her into an alleyway, then came out, then went back in.” The man shrugs.

“Strange behavior, Mr. Noah Smith.” The mister is accentuated, perhaps he, too, is doubting the name. “Why did you do this?” One eyebrow rises toward his wavy black hair. The sides are shaved, his eyelids seem swollen and smudged with shadow, whether from genetics or debauchery, I can’t tell, and don’t care. The man is a pig.

“I liked her ass, Montez. So I took it.”

“You fucked her?” Montez acts shocked.

“Not yet. Your men interrupted me, and I was going to cut her up also. I feel you owe me.”

He barks out a laugh. “You were? I owe you? Ha! So you know…knew, who she is? You thought, maybe I will deliver her to Montez as a present, all bleeding and sobbing? I like that but find it hard to believe. Is she cut?”

“No, sir,” one guard answers. “Though he had a knife out. Her panties were lying in the alley.”

“Really? Show me these.”

Is Montez a panty sniffer? Something else to add to his file if I get out of here alive. I won’t though. I know this. Not unless I find a trump card to throw down. I have nothing.

Don’t panic. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Uh, Sorry, sir. We got the knife but not the underwear.”

“That is evidence of her presence. Go back and get them. Leave the knife.” Montez waits while the two guards apologize, bring my pocketknife to his table, then exit. He examines my knife.

“The odds are a little better, Dead Guy,” I murmur. How can I call him Noah? It leaves me feeling odd when I do because I’m still sure this is not really his name.

He glances my way. “I’m not your friend.”

“Why are you talking to her?” Montez drawls and picks something from his teeth. His female companion is drinking wine and looking bored, judging by the drooping of her eyelids and wandering gaze.

“I told her, I am not her friend.”

“Good, then you won’t mind killing her.”

Oh god. A continuous violin-like note whines internally. The words are a spear shoved through me, twisted, then shoved some more. I may vomit.

“I won’t mind at all. I know her name now, and she has been like a little monkey gnawing at our heels with her writing.”

“Our? Mine perhaps. You are a businessman, Noah. Why would this, her words, worry you?”