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I steal his drink again, taking a heavy gulp. “I might have something for you,” I tell him.
“Oh yeah?” He perks up.
“It’s not exactly simple. We need a driver, some muscle, a lock picker, and somebody to handle alarms. Plus some custom equipment.”
Mason grins. “What kind of equipment?”
“I’ll give you a list,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
Mason’s handy with fabrication. If I give him the specs, he can put together almost anything.
“Is Dante the muscle?” he says.
“Possibly.”
I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to rope my big brother into this one. He’s gotten so conservative. It might be best to spring it on him last minute, when the wheels are already in motion.
“I assume you’re working the locks,” Mason says.
“Of course.”
“We could use Jonesy for the alarms.”
“Yeah, if he’s back on his meds.”
“What about the driver?”
At that moment, Camille Rivera walks into the living room. She looks like absolute shit—hair a crazy tangle of curls. Huge dark circles under her eyes. Expression like she just watched a car wreck explode in front of her.
“To be determined,” I say to Mason.
I intercept Camille over by the kegs. She’s just poured herself a cup of Levi’s shit beer and she’s gulping it down.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask her.
“None of your business,” she snaps.
She finishes her beer and pours another, the cup half full of foam.
“You’re in a hurry,” I say, watching her drink that beer down just as fast.
“I don’t need your commentary, Nero,” she says, draining her second cup. “You’re about the last person on the planet who should be giving me shit for drinking too much.”
Usually this would be the point in the conversation where I’d tell her to knock herself out—literally. But today I don’t. I can see bright tears gleaming in the corner of Camille’s eyes. In all the years I’ve known her, in all the times I’ve seen her pissed off, agitated, or stressed, I’ve never seen her cry. Not once.
There’s something seriously wrong with that sight. It’s like a lion with its mane shaved off. It makes me feel the one thing I don’t ever want to feel—pity.
“What’s going on?” I ask her. “What happened?”
“What do you care?” Camille shouts. “Stop pretending to be nice to me! It just makes it worse.”
She’s drawing the attention of the people around us, but I don’t care.
She tries to stomp off away from me and I seize her arm and jerk her back again. I spin her around, her body pressed up against mine. It’s hot as hell in the house, and Camille’s flesh is even hotter. My blood is rushing hard, and I can feel myself grimacing, teeth bared, as I demand, “Tell me what’s going on!”
She stares up at me, those big dark eyes wide and furious. “Let go of me, Nero!”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!”
