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Partners.
If our grandfathers could see us now, they’d be laughing their asses off. A Chastain and a Montoya working together? Told ya it would happen again!
The joke’s on them because partnering with Sabrina doesn’t mean a damn thing. I’m in this for the payout, and I’m a firm believer that when life gives you lemons, you add some Everclear and make limoncello. Case in point: This could be my opportunity to get close to Sabrina, butter her up. Maybe then she’ll tell me what really happened with her parents and Walker because it doesn’t add up.
Maybe it really was an accident, I think, then shake my head.
No.
I can’t go there because if that’s true, I’ve been a real asshole to her this past year but threatening her clearly doesn’t get me the answers I want. Nothing fazes that woman, which is irritating as all hell. Normally, I can pull a gun on someone and they piss themselves, but Sabrina doesn’t even blink.
Sure, I might have to play nice, but I can be Mr. Nice Guy. Slap my ass and call me Saint Montoya.
When I watched her tape deli meat to one of those Roomba crumb-suckers to lure off a guard dog during a job once, did I tell her it was the most badass use of a smart vacuum I’d witnessed? You bet I did.
See? That was nice.
Besides, Chastain does all the boring bullshit I can’t stand, like stakeouts for hours on end without falling asleep. Yeah, I could get my revenge, stretch out all her cashmere sweaters, but revenge is too much damn work. What am I supposed to do? Strangle her? I can barely get my ass out of bed most days. If I did that, I’d never get to see her face turn all red again when I smear blood with my boot.
And it’s not as if Sabrina pulled the trigger.
She still does a great job annoying me, though, when she drags me to a restaurant called Girl & the Goose that has a thousand plants crammed inside, swears I’ll love the whipped ricotta (because of course she googled “Best Restaurants in Benson” before this), and turns out to be right. I don’t want to like overpriced happy hours with fancy cheese and light bulbs hanging from the ivy ceiling that make the gray in her eyes glow pale blue.
And, shit, when did I become a poet?
She sips her cinnamon-colored martini as she scans the exits. Every thirty seconds or so, her eyes go back to that bright red sign, looking for anything off.
“What’s that?” I ask, nodding to her glass. I could go for a drink. Or three.
“It’s a spiced maple mocktail.”
“Mocktail? Why?”
“As much as I would love a drink, since I have to deal with you, I never drink on jobs.”
Of course not. Chastain could never give up control like that, but I like surrendering to the buzz. At least then that gnawing, Walker-shaped ache in my chest stops throbbing.
When the waiter walks up, I open my mouth to order a double bourbon, something numbing, but instead I blurt out, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
He nods before walking away. Sabrina blinks at me. “You’re a spiced maple guy?”
I lift a shoulder, not wanting to talk about it. I don’t know why I said that, but I don’t want to be pissed-drunk if she’s staying sober. “Sure am. It’s fall. Have you seen all the pumpkins? They’re up this town’s ass.”
“I think they’re cute,” she says, sucking an apple cube off her mocktail. “Okay, so I’ve been going through Bobbi’s Venmo transaction history—”
“That wasn’t in the profile,” I cut in, jerking my gaze away from her mouth. The woman might be related to degenerates, but she’s got nice lips.
“I do my own research,” she says.
I watch her drag another apple cube across her lips, chew slow, and swallow. I need a blindfold. Or that melon-baller eye-scooper.
“Why not look at her credit card statements like a normal person?” I ask.
“Because I want a full picture of her spending habits. People mostly Venmo their friends, so it’s a good way to see who she’s close to.”
Huh. I skimmed the profile and figured I’d get what I needed by having a six-pack of beer with Arch. She’s thorough.
“Anything interesting?” I ask, more impressed than I’ll admit as I scarf down some focaccia.
