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“Need to know something.”
“What?”
“Why does he call you Triple?”
“Rosy?”
In too much pain to give her a full answer, he grunted.
“You really wanna talk about thisnow?”
“No better time.”
“You’re nuts,” she said, sounding irritated.
“Well?”
She made a sound of frustration. “You ever heard the expressiondouble trouble?”
Westvane shook his head.
“When I first started working for Rosy, he always said, ‘You’re double the trouble and triple the threat.’”
“And Triple stuck.”
“Yeah. Annoys the crap out of me, but —”
“Montrose calls you that anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell him to stop.”
She huffed. “Brilliant suggestion, bozo. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Her snarly tone tickled his funny bone. Unable to help it, Westvane laughed. Goddess, she was prickly. Beyond stubborn. So fierce, he couldn’t help but admire the way she moved through the world — unapologetically, with a tenaciousness that matched his own.
“Truly —”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“If I die, you need to —”
“You’re not going to die.”
His temper ignited, helping him stay on his feet. “Quit interrupting me.”
“Then stop saying stupid shit.”
“I’m trying to tell you — "
“Shut up, Westvane. Now is no time for epiphanies,” she said, shoving him forward. “Get in the bucket.”
Arm around her shoulders, hand fisted in her coat, he swayed and, vision wavering, stared at the bucket. Large. Wooden. Thick ropes attached to it. Looked sturdy, strong enough to carry his weight.
Bracing for the pain, he grabbed the edge and planted a knee on the lip.
Truly shoved him from behind.
