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Fynn stiffens. “Darko?”
She shrugs. “He’s got a set of buns on him.”
I think she’s trying to make Fynn jealous.
“Buns? Eww.” Fynn makes a face. “I did not need that visual.”
“I wish you two would just go bang it out,” I sigh. “It’d take all that frustration away, and my ears would stop bleeding from listening to you two go at it.”
“He started it,” she fires back. “Being an asshole, he used to be nice to me.”
“I’m not an asshole! I said you looked lovely. How is that being an asshole?”
“What Fynn fails to realize,” she says, addressing me, as she throws her tools down and dabs my arm more forcefully. “Is that unlike most of the general population of Boston, I don’t fall at his feet.”
He scratches his head, emphasizing the point. I almost feel a bit sorry for him. “You’re forgetting my best asset, Sage…”
“Which does all your thinking for you,” she mutters.
“Now, now, I mean my abilities to still be a gentleman. I wine and dine them first, before they fall at my feet.”
She gives him a withering look.
“La la la,” I say, blocking my ears. “Seriously, guys, just no.”
“Ugh!” Sage grimaces in frustration. “Is it too late to have him removed?”
“Darko!” I yell.
Fynn punches me on my good arm. “Don’t do that. I’ll have to beat him up, too.”
“Who else did you beat up? Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Sage continues to wrap my arm in a bandage. “There’s no residue from the bullet. You got lucky since it didn’t penetrate. I want to change that dressing tomorrow, so I’ll come by the casino.”
Fynn and I share a look over the beating-up comment, but neither of us says a word.
I nod. “Perfect, thanks, Sage. You’re the best.”
She smiles warmly. “You’re most welcome.” When she glances at Fynn, her face turns into a mock scowl. “You’re still here.”
He shrugs, glancing up from his phone. “Just checking out the movies this week. There’s a rom-com playing on Saturday night.”
She huffs noisily. “I don’t watch those anymore. I only like action movies.”
“Perfect, Sylvester Stallone has a new one out…let me check the times…”
“Give it up, Fynn,” I mock. “I don’t think she’s impressed.”
“Too bad I’m busy all week, working. You know, trying to be a better person and give back to the community, that kind of thing. Not flouncing around my absurd wealth with a different car for every day of the week.”
“Hey, I collect sports cars. Pick you up at eight? The Porsche is perfect. The seats roll backwards to give us a little room.”
Oh my god. He’s unbelievable.
“Fynn Dominico Alfonso Mario Medici, keep it in your pants. You were such a nice boy growing up. What happened?” she muses.
I pat Fynn on the shoulder sympathetically.
“What do I have to do to get your attention?” he grumbles. “Get shot as well?”
