Page 19 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

That wasn’t usually a descriptor people used for me. Not compared to crazy fucks in the Family like Brio. But I guess to a very normal girl topping off at, what, five-six, yeah, I was scary.

Another minute later, I smelled the rich scent of coffee drifting over to me.

“Drip.”

“What?” I asked.

“You have a drip coffee machine.”

“As opposed to…”

“Single-serves. Espresso machines. French press. Pour-over.”

“Single-serves are a waste of plastic. Espresso machines are for latte drinkers. French press is a mess to clean. And pour-over is just drip coffee with extra steps.”

“You don’t like lattes?”

“It’s a whole lot of milk. I like coffee.”

“I mean, it is just strong coffee.”

“With three different kinds of syrups, whipped cream, drizzle…”

“Hey, some people like things that actually taste good. Not bean water.”

“I’ve had this exact conversation with my little sister before.”

“You have a little sister?”

“Yep. Though, I guess she’s not so little anymore. She’s married and everything. But she likes all those fancy-ass coffee drinks.” And we spent many a day in line at coffee shops arguing about them. But I paid for her absurd, high-priced concoction every time.

There was a tug at that, a feeling of nostalgia I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Weird time for that kind of sensation.

“Any chance you keep any of those fancy syrups here for her?”

“She’s out in Brooklyn. Doesn’t make her way up here much.” If she did, maybe I’d have the syrups. But she didn’t visit much when she lived in Manhattan either. Nico was her rock, her emotional touchstone, the brother she spent most of the time with. Cesare was the one who tried to talk her into doing crazy shit. Zeno fixed her laptop, phone, or e-reader when it broke. Leo took her out and spoiled her. I was who she hit up when she wanted to go to The Strand to get books, since she didn’t want to go out to the East Village by herself. And she’d talk me into getting coffee on the way. She had basically no reason to ever come to my house.

“Not having creamer in the house is criminal,” my captor murmured to herself as she prepared our drinks.

She brought mine to the table, setting it in front of me. When I shot her a look, it took a full few seconds before she understood my meaning.

“Oh. Right.”

“You have your gun,” I reminded her. Her fake, marker-painted gun.

“Yeah. And if you try anything, I won’t hesitate to use it.”

And possibly give me a very nice welt. If there were even any BBs in the chamber.

“Got it,” I agreed, watching her as she carefully moved all her items off the table and onto the extra chairs, out of my reach. Then she spent a solid three minutes fishing around for the handcuff key as I tried not to laugh.

She finally produced it and unlocked my already loose hand. “You just get one hand.”

“You don’t think my ankle restraints are enough?”

God, it was going to be fucking hilarious when she realized just how bad she was at this. But for the moment, I was enjoying playing the game.

This was the most fun I’d had in months.