Page 23 of Rent an Enforcer

We stand that way for a minute, maybe longer. Me leaning against him, both of us looking at her. He sounds regretful when he murmurs, “I came in here to tell you something.”

I probably smear paint across my cheek when I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “What?”

“The rabbit’s crate is open.”

I spin around. The towel in the corner where Socks was sitting is now empty. “He was right there. He was literally right there five minutes ago.”

“He’s not there now.”

“Oh, god.” I push past Tristan into the hallway. “Socks? Socks!”

“He’s a rabbit,” Tristan reminds me very unhelpfully, trailing along behind. “He’s not going to answer you.”

“He might. He’s very smart. Socks!”

We search the living room first. The sectional is enormous and has approximately nine thousand crevices where a small rabbit could wedge himself. I check under the coffee table, behind the bookshelf, even inside a pair of boots by the front door.

The kitchen is mostly empty, which should make this easy, but Socks has a talent for finding spaces that don’t seem like they should exist. I open every ground-level cabinet while Tristan opens the ones above. I check the oven because he once climbed into my oven at the old apartment and sat there for an hour like he was waiting to be roasted.

“Bedroom,” I announce before heading that way.

“He better not be in the bedroom.”

“He goes where he wants, Tristan. He’s a free spirit.” Sure enough, that’s where we find him. Well, technically, we find him in the closet, sitting behind a pair of dress shoes. He’s chewing something green and papery, working on it with the single-minded focus of a creature who knows he’s not supposed to have what he has and is determined to finish it before anyone can take it away.

Tristan crouches down and reaches in to extract the thing from Socks’s mouth, which Socks does not appreciate. He even thumps his back foot, which is the rabbit equivalent of a strongly worded letter.

Tristan holds up the remnants of a hundred-dollar bill. “Your rabbit,” he says slowly, “ate my money.”

“He didn’t eat it,” I point out. “He sampled it. Most of it is still left.”

“His teeth went through a president’s face.”

“Benjamin Franklin was never a president. He was a diplomat and inventor.”

“Your rabbit ate a hundred-dollar bill,” he nearly growls. “President or not.”

“I’ll pay you back,” I offer, scooping up Socks before he can find another bill. Where there’s one, there’s probably more. “He has expensive taste. What can I say?”

The corners of Tristan’s mouth twitch. I get the feeling he’s trying to suppress a grin. Let’s just say he’s not succeeding.

Dropping the bill on the dresser, he takes Socks from my arms and holds the rabbit up to eye level. Socks stares at him. Tristan stares at Socks. “You and I are going to have a conversation about boundaries,” he growls.

Then he looks at me. “The crate stays closed from now on.”

“Agreed.”

“And I’m moving the cash.”

“Also agreed.”

His almost-smile starts to spread, and it changes everything about him. It lights up his face, making him look softer. Now I can actually believe he’s the sort of man who will cohabitate with a rabbit so long as it makes me happy. “You good?” he asks.

All I have to do is think about my painting and about the memory of Mom that was always there, waiting for me to find it. “Yeah. I’m definitely good.” Better than I’ve been in years.

10

TRISTAN