Regarding the girl one last time, I disappear back into the car, turn the air conditioning all the way up, and speed away.
Another day, another dollar
An hour into my drive back to New Orleans, I receive a phone call from March. I hit the green button on my phone, and a buttery-brown face with big amber eyes and gorgeous, loose, black curls pops up on the screen.
“And how is mykillerassistant?” I ask.
“Ha. Nice to hear you making jokes. But I’ll leave all the killing to you.”
I sigh pseudo disappointedly. “I know, you’re no fun.”
“I’m a hell of a lot of fun, honey. Just find me on Duval Street during Fantasy Fest.”
“An impromptu trip to Key West sounds good to me.”
“As much I would love to book two plane tickets to paradise, your presence has been requested.”
“Oh yeah? By who?”
“Mr. Ronan Kennedy.”
“And what does our exceptionally violent Irish mobster want?”
“Besides to fuck you?” March is achingly sarcastic.
“Yes, besides that. No mixing business with pleasure. It gets you dead.”
“And no one wants that.” His snarky streak continues.
“Nope.”
“There’s an associate of his being particularly nasty. He’s asking if you can assist one of his guys. Apparently, he isn't getting it done.”
“Dear God, where does Ronan find these people?” I gripe.
“What? His muscle or his associates?”
“Both.” I roll my eyes.
“The same barrel he found you. You were just floating at the top instead of on the bottom.” March is smug. His opinion of me is way higher than it should be.
“Where’s the job?” My curiosity is piqued.
“That’s the beauty of the whole thing. Right in your current backyard. New Orleans herself,” he hums with a freakishly perfect Southern accent.
“Convenient.”
“I thought so.”
“You worked out the price?”
“Of course. It’s more than generous, like always.”
“Okay, I’m in.”
March scoffs. “Like I was giving you another choice.”
“I don’t remember bestowing you free reign on my career choices.”
