Page 57 of Tony

Fuck.

Yeah. I would really like to forget all about Rosalinda, and Vann Vaughn, and the FBI, and the witness protection program, and that stupid yippy dog that seems to be everywhere I am.

More pounding from the direction of the door. I throw the covers off me, pull on yesterday’s jeans, and then casually check my phone for the time.

Nine oh three AM.

I yawn as I open the door and then immediately cover my mouth and smile. Because my red-headed Poison Ivy siren is on the other side wearing a pleated white tennis skirt and a light green tank top that shows a lot of cleavage. “Soshee? What are you doing here?”

She holds up a white bakery bag in one hand and a coffee holder with two cups in the other. “I told you to come by this morning so I could feed you.” She pouts her lips. “But you blew me off.”

“I didn’t,” I say, taking the coffee from her outstretched hand. “I just… slept in, I guess.”

Not true because I’m not sure I can call what I just did actual sleep.

“I was just dreaming about you though.” Also, not entirely true. But if I could choose a girl to dream about, it would definitely be her.

Soshee comes inside, kicks the door closed with the back of her foot, and then saunters over to the little table near the kitchen to set down the pastry bag. “Mmm. You dreamt about me? That sounds very promising.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “If that’s even true.”

“Should I tell you about the dream?”

“Is it a dirty dream?”

“Do you want it to be a dirty dream?”

She tries not to smile, fails, and then shrugs her shoulders as her eyes travel up and down my bare torso. When her eyes meet mine again, she’s biting her lip. “Nice… tattoos.”

I look down at my shoulders. “Well, I’m no Vann Vaughn. But they’re not bad.”

She turns around, presses her hands on the table and leans into it a little as she studies my upper body where my ink lives. “Sea monsters. Interesting theme.”

“It fits, believe it or not.”

“I’m gonna need that story, Tony.”

“I’m happy to tell it, Soshee.”

“But let’s eat first. We need our energy for today.”

I walk over to the table and set the coffee down just as she pulls out a little paper box and opens it up to reveal little sugared things.

“Frittelle,” she says, smiling big as she presents the box to me. “Eat them. I made them fresh less than an hour ago.”

I pick one up—it’s still warm—and pop it into my mouth. “Damn, Sosh,” I say, savoring the sweetness as she watches me with an expression of delight.

“Good?”

“Divine.”

“Here. Have another one. And sit.” She pulls out a chair, pushes me in that general direction, and then takes the seat on the opposite side of the table, propping her chin in her hands as she smiles at me.

“Aren’t you going to have any?”

“Trust me.” She laughs. “I ate my fill while I was baking this morning.”

“Sounds like a pretty good way to make a living,” I say, popping another frittelle in my mouth.

“I can’t complain,” she says, pointing to my coffee on the table. “I didn’t know how you take your coffee, so you got a latte instead.”