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“Got the anthill,” Bartholomew said. “Now all we need is the queen.”
Julien’s face immediately tightened into rage, probably provoked by the queen comment. “Your time will come.”
“Maybe when I’m ninety.” Bartholomew kept his hands together, still and cold. “Getting my dick sucked by one model in Positano.” He tilted his head slightly, gave a shrug. “And my balls licked by another.”
I hid the smirk that wanted to grow.
Julien didn’t need to speak his rage. It was written on his face, in the tightness of his lips, the annoyance in his eyes—or, should I say, eye. “You’re crazy…blowing up your own ship.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “What can I say? I like to put on a good show.”
“You’re going—”
I pulled out my gun and shot him square between the eyes.
His body gave a jerk before he slumped in the chair—dead.
I set the gun on the table in front of us.
Bartholomew turned to me, the question in his eyes.
“I’m hungry.”
I walked in the door and dropped my jacket on the counter.
Constance was washing dishes in the sink, and she turned off the faucet when she heard me. “Just got home.”
I couldn’t suppress the annoyed sigh that came from my lips. I’d hurried home in the hope I could take Claire to school this morning, but I’d just missed her.
She dried her hands on the towel, her eyes pitying me.
I found the leftovers in the fridge and stood at the bar to eat it cold. Hot, cold, I didn’t give a shit. At the end of a long night, I just wanted to eat and go to sleep. When I woke up, Claire would be home. Maybe I could help her with her homework.
Constance leaned against the other counter and watched me.
I ignored her stare.
Everything on the plate was devoured in a minute because I was in a hurry. Didn’t want to slow down just to enjoy cold eggs that didn’t taste that great even when they were fresh. The dirty plate was left in the sink, and I walked off.
“About the other day…”
“It was a one-time thing.” I turned back around to stare at her from where she remained in the kitchen, in tight jeans, boots that went to her knees, a silk blouse that stopped at her elbows. “Meant nothing.”
Her green eyes didn’t hold a hint of offense. She seemed to expect me to say that. “I don’t want it to be a one-time thing.” Her quiet voice carried across the room, out of the kitchen, and into the sitting room where I stood.
“It meant nothing. And it’ll always mean nothing.” She’d been in my company long enough to know that I was an empty vessel that felt nothing for the world around me—unless it involved my daughter.
“That’s fine. Doesn’t need to mean anything.”
I stared at her from across the room, hearing the sincerity of her words, witnessing it with my own eyes too. “Then why?”
“It’s what I need right now.” Her arms crossed over her chest, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her arm up and down. “You’re what I need.”
Claire sat across from me at the dining table, our coloring books on the surface, colored pencils everywhere, along with crayons and markers.
I pushed the black crayon into the page, marking the inside of the horse with the dark color.
“Dad, that’s ugly,” she said with a laugh. “You’re supposed to do it like this.” She held up her page, showing the vivid colors of the horses, the flowers in the meadow, the bright blue sky. “See? It’s pretty.”
“Guess I’m just not as good as you are.” My dark horse was accompanied by a dark, gray sky, a London fog, and brown soil that had been kissed by fallen raindrops. “It’s supposed to be Budweiser.”
“Ohh…I see it now. We’ll put it on the fridge.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” Whenever I spent time with Claire, Constance silently excused herself and stayed in her bedroom. She understood exactly when she was needed and dismissed herself without my having to give her instruction, and it was one of the reasons I liked her the most. She knew her place. “How was school?”
“Good. I hate aritick, though.”
“Aritick?” I asked with a laugh. “You mean arithmetic?”
“Yeah, whatever. It’s a weird word.”
“It is a weird word.”
She kept coloring, moving on to another page, making it just as bright and bold as all her others.
“Still like having Constance around?”
“Uh, yeah. She’s the best. She’s my best friend.”
“She is?”
“Besides you.” She rolled her eyes as she kept coloring. “Dad, you can have more than one best friend.”
I continued to add color to the page, but I’d rather sit there and stare at her forever. “You can?”
“Yep. Angelica and Linda are my best friends too.”
“What about Strawberry?”
“You can’t be best friends with a pony. But she’s my favorite pony.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. I’m glad that you and Constance are getting along.”
