Something Wicked 🏳️‍🌈 (bxb)

19: Tetanus versus pufferfish

Long-worked muscles snaked under his shirt as he stepped back, but his towering height—and his piercing eyes that seemed to be constantly scanning, analyzing, cross-referencing—made him kinda fascinating to look at; for a second I couldn't tear my eyes away.

"Sylvia never stops talking about you."

I craned my neck past Hamish to catch Sylvia's eye. "In a good way?"

Sylvia's lips curled a touch, before she returned her attention to the lab bench.

"In a good way. You're the ace up her sleeve." Hamish turned to Sylvia, his forehead crinkling. "Or was it the joker, Sylvia?"

"Wild card, lover." Sylvia waved a dismissive hand, as if to roll the conversation on to more pressing matters.

Hamish led me to the lab area, still with that broad smile. "She usually just talks about how much better you look in my clothes than I do."

I wondered how much of his charm was from the quiet pride that money gave him, and how much of it was from an inner confidence in the path he'd chosen. Reclusive billionaires didn't build secret lairs under cities to do thankless vigilante shit unless it was some kinda calling. I'd always thought it was the allure of dollars that had made a top-dog boss like Sylvia Payne want a guy like Hamish McCloud, but three seconds of conversation with him was all I needed to realize that his billions meant nothing to Sylvia. The dude was just plain fucking sexy.

"My butler can get you anything you want, Jason. Do you want a beer?"

And, of course he'd have a butler.

"Desmond? Can we get him a beer?"

The skinny senior who'd been busy labeling shit at the lab bench turned to us. Looked like Hamish McCloud had a butler who was also some kinda forensics expert. Desmond floated over to me, all stiff shirt and British accent. "Certainly, mister Torres."

I held up my palms, determined not to delay any longer. "Thanks but I kinda...don't drink."

Hamish nodded. "Saudi thing, right?"

I offered him a watery "Yeah." More like a Mamá thing.

"We have a small selection of tea, Mister Torres," Desmond offered, his huge gray eyebrows wriggling like caterpillars.

By small I was guessing these dudes had black, grey, white, and every tea in between. My taste in tea was a little more pedestrian than whatever these classy mofos drank.

"You got mint? Can I have a strong tea with a sprig of mint, please? With four sugars?"

"Aah, Arabic tea." Desmond gave me a knowing little smile. "Of course, Mister Torres. I became quite the fan when I was stationed in Iraq."

"Thanks, Desmond." I fucking loved this ancient badass already. "Just call me Jay."

"Of course, Mister Jay." With a twitch of those great eyebrows, Desmond floated away into the darkness of the cave, stopping briefly to give a cheery "What ho, Mister Vincenzo?" at the pristine suit, shiny brogues, and haunted Romani eyes that had materialized outta the shadows in the rocks next to him.

Vinnie Russo took one look at me and raced over, shoving the tangle of cables he was carrying onto a bench with a clatter. "Has Dante called you? Has he texted?"

"No, man. I'm sorry."

Sylvia took Vinnie by the hand and led him to a lab stool. "His phone's switched off. He'll contact us when he's ready."

Vinnie refused to sit, his features contorting in an effort not to cry. "Red Demon, please. You have to get—"

"We're gonna get Dante and Rayan back. And don't call me that, man. I'm not the Red Demon anymore. Just Jay, OK?"