I tighten my jaw, needing to refocus and get this meeting over with.
“Yeah, what's up, brother? You’ve been looking stressed lately,” asks a familiar voice immediately off my right shoulder.
Motherfucker.I nearly jump out of my skin, then turn a murderous gaze onto another dear friend.
“Hopper. I told you to never sneak up on me like that. You know I can't stand it.” I shake out my arms, glad that the only asshole on this planet who can throw me off my game is a guy who would straight-up murder anyone who came after me.
Allegedly.
“Sorry, Anthony. Habit,” he says, cleaning off a bloody knife before sheathing it.
“Do I want to know what you were doing with that thing?”
I regret asking the question because a pained moan emanates from the warehouse’s little office. I hold up my hand. “Don’t answer that.”
He grins and gives me a quick hug.
Saving him from that halfway house he’d been moldering in created this…attachment between us. A deep affection that makes about as much sense as a consigliere who won’t break the law, and I’ve decided to accept the elements of my life that don’t make any fucking sense.
I suppose it’s better to have a dangerously insane person on your side than not, but there are days when I question it.
“So, where's this contact of yours?” I demand, checking my watch. “He’s seven minutes late. And why haven’t you covered all this shit in here? We don’t know this guy.”
Hopper makes a big deal of checking his naked wrist before lightly punching my arm. “He’s flying in from Texas for this meeting, and his plane was delayed by nine minutes.”
“Something that would have been good to know seven—now eight—minutes ago.”
Hopper, dragging heavy canvas over the contraband I have not witnessed, stops and raises a brow. “This guy is the best in the business for what we need, and he came highly recommended by a friend.”
The problem with Hopper, aside from the obvious psychopathy, is that he lacks the same filters for exclusion that most of us have. Kills good trumps cleanliness, punctuality, and cleverness with him. And when he calls someone the best in the business, it’s better to anticipate unpleasant side effects, like out-of-control hand, foot, and mouth disease or unhinged flatulence, rather than be surprised by one of the hellish traits he ignores when choosing the help.
Thankfully, Hopper loathes anyone who hurts the innocent, and since he’s a human asshole detector, we’ve at least never invited a devotee of Jeffrey Dahmer into our circle.
Small favors, I suppose.
I let out a long breath. Have I mentioned how much I hate breaking the law?
Finally, the door at the far end of the warehouse cracks open, sending a column of light through the space, and in walks whatever nightmare he’s chosen to work with today.
Okay, not totally a nightmare.
A handsome man with dark-blond hair crosses the space wearing cowboy boots, perfectly worn-in jeans, a white linen shirt, thin leather bracelets, and a long necklace of wooden mala beads. Pretty much everything you’d think a country boy who’s spent some time in an ashram would look like. The man’s good hygiene and calm demeanor make me uneasy.
Hopper bounces on his heels, clapping his hands. “He's here. He's here!”
“Yes, Hopper. I can see that.”
The man, shorter than me with piercing eyes and a sharp jaw, stops in front of us. “Hey, Hopper. Introduce me to your men.”
Hopper breaks into a wide grin. “This is Edgerton, though his first name is really Anthony. But he's all straight edges, so only Luca—that’s him in the suit—and I call him Anthony. Though Anthony’s gay, so…not straight…but it still makes a certain kind of sense. Anyway. Luca’s pansexual, and I’m…hell if I know what I am. Are you gay?”
I stare at Hopper, eyebrows raised. “I don't think he needed all that, Hop. And you’re not supposed to ask people their sexuality.”
Hopper grins and then steps back. “Sorry, I got excited. He's here!”
“Yes, Hopper. I see that. Who is he?”
“Oh, he’s the one who’s going to kill the bad guys,” Hopper says, holding his hands up as though it’s obvious.