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“I can see that,” I reply, trying to keep Mr. Big’s attention so he doesn’t hear Poppy.
But I’m not surprised when that doesn’t go to plan either. As she comes around the crate Mr. Big is standing next to, she trips over her own feet and stumbles right into the open.
Mr. Big whirls and aims the gun at her. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Oh!” she exclaims, completely ignoring the gun aimed at her chest in favor of adopting a ditzy airhead act, “I was looking for the bathroom and seem to have gotten a little lost.” She holds her hand up to her mouth as though confiding top-secret intel. “Do you know where the ladies’ room is? I swear I can’t go more than a few minutes without having to tinkle. That’s what my grandmother used to call it—tinkle. She said it was more ladylike than saying you had to piss. But really, we all do it, so why the need for code words?”
She’s rambling, getting closer and closer as if she doesn’t even see the gun. It’s so off the wall, though, that it works, and Mr. Big somehow doesn’t shoot her. “What? Just . . . stop moving. And talking.”
Poppy stops as if she just realized what she walked into. Taking off her glasses, she wipes at the lenses, then puts them back on, doing a double-take at Mr. Big. “Holy shit.” Her eyes are wide, and she covers her mouth with her hands. From behind spread fingers, she says, “What’s with the gun? Did I walk in on something? I didn’t mean to interrupt, sorry about that. Just needed to piss.” She looks up to the ceiling, backpedaling. “Sorry, MeeMaw.”
She backs away, her butt bumping into a table, rattling everything on its surface and sending a vase several feet away crashing over.
“Stop right there, woman,” I yell in a last-ditch effort to keep Poppy safe. Maybe if Mr. Big believes she’s a wayward attendee of the auction, he’ll let her go. I hope that’s true even as I know there’s zero chance of that happening.
When Mr. Big glances over at me, Poppy takes advantage and grabs the closest heavy object, which happens to be the statue I was supposedly sent here to steal. Four pounds of stone make a hell of a club, and with Mr. Big’s head half turned away, the statue catches him right in the temple.
Mr. Big drops to the floor like he was the one who got shot, and Poppy starts jumping up and down like she won the hammer strike game at the county fair.
“I did it!” Her shout of excitement reminds me of Dora the Explorer, loud and ridiculous considering what she’s done. “That worked better than I thought! I saved you! With female ingenuity and . . . bewbies!”
She points at the statue’s breasts, sounding proud of herself, but I’m pretty much flummoxed. “What? You didn’t save me. I was about to do something to save you.”
Poppy scoffs, holding up her impromptu weapon like it’s completely natural for a woman to wield ad-hoc bludgeons like golf clubs and ancient stone statues on a regular basis. “Sure, you were.”
My gut twists, the fear of losing her turning into hot, liquid fury as I look at the still stunned Mr. Big. Poppy, my woman, had a gun held on her, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t save her.
Shame weighs on my soul.
She’s such a bright light, one the world needs, and it was almost snuffed out too soon. Because of me.
But I can fix this. Moving quickly to Mr. Big’s sprawled body, I pick up the gun from the concrete before plucking the statue from Poppy’s hand, not wanting her to crack me over the head with it too.
JP, who realizes that somehow, he’s been given the gift of life at the last moment, looks at me in shock. “Connor?”
I look him in the eye, trusting my gut. “Both of you, let’s go. Now.”
JP’s eyes narrow, and I know what he’s thinking. I pissed off a very valuable, very violent man. What’s stopping me from doing the same to JP?
“Not a question,” I tell him, tucking the pistol into my belt. “We’ve got some shit to talk about.”
We go out the back door of the building and around the side to climb into my truck with Poppy in the back and JP in the passenger seat because I’m not entirely sure I trust him at my back just yet.
As soon as we’re clear of the parking lot, I grab my phone and dial Hunter.
Despite how our last conversation finished, he answers on the very first ring. “Miss me already?”
There is no time for niceties or manners. Shit’s hit the fan, officially and majorly. “Need a pickup team at the auction house. Mr. Big is unconscious in the back room. You’ll recognize him. Shane Harris.”
