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The old woman lets go of my palm and laughs.
“Rumi was a Muslim poet and scholar. Smart man. He once said, ‘Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.’ Whoever this man is that you’re afraid to love, he’s been there all along. And for a reason.”
Grandma Hooker hasn’t really told me anything I don’t already know, but I won’t lie. My mind is officially blown away. I feel as though I’ve been mind-fucked by a sixteen-inch cock.
It’s hard to deny that she makes a lot of sense. But then, if I were as old as Jesus’ sandals, I’d have words of wisdom to share, too.
“Thank you. Really,” I say as I take a step back. “So, what do I owe you?”
The fortune teller looks around the room and points to a couple of bags of pot sitting on a table.
“I’ll take those, and we can call it even.”
“Deal!”
The woman struts—and struts with confidence I might add—over to the table and grabs the bags.
“Thank you, dear. And good luck with your little dilemma.”
Yzma—or whatever her actual name is—walks out naked, with two large bags of pot under her arms like she owns the place.
Well, can’t say that she doesn’t lack for confidence.
I turn and stroll over to the main sitting area. My eyes fall to the phone on the table as I sit on the plush couch. I think that I know now what direction to go.
Is there a chance I might regret this later? Maybe.
But as of right now, in this moment, this is the only thing that I can do.
My fingers wrap around the receiver of the phone. I keep playing what I’m going to tell Anton over in my head.
BANG!
I watch in shock as the front door blasts inward, and I jump up from the couch with a scream of surprise.
Two men in black suits rush in.
…Fucking typical.
“Okay, and who the fuck are you, guys?” I demand. “FBI? CIA? If you’re fucking Interpol again, I’ve already told your boss once, I’m not interested, so—”
They don’t say anything.
I swing and kick at them, drawing to mind every self-defense PSA I’ve ever watched. Still, the muscle heads manage to handcuff my hands behind my back and put a black bag over my head.
This is when panic truly begins to set in. It’s also when I realize that I shouldn’t have flaked on those krav maga classes after only going to three of them.
All the different ways that these men can murder me start to play through my mind as they drag me out of the suite.
When they pull me into the elevator, one of them begins to speak in French. I don’t know a fucking lick of French outside ofmange ma chatteandbelle bite.
But I hear a name.
It’s a name I recognize and dread.
Estelle.
Oh, for fucks sake. Estelle Lanteri, Queen of Menage.
Or as I like to think of her, Anton’s cunt of a mother.
Apparently, mommy dearest wants to have a chat.
And when the Queen of Menage wants you over for tea…
Think of it as an offer that I literally can’t refuse.
