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My grin stretches wider. “Who said I was joking?”
“I’ve read your file, Miss Kingfisher. Guns are not your signature.”
I shrug. “I can devolve.”
“Not in here, you can’t.”
“Are we done?” I yawn and stretch, getting to my feet but keeping my gaze on the window. “I’m still fucking whacked from the roofie they gave me to get me here. I could really do with sleeping it off while praying none of your fucking goons raped me while I was out. This would be a shithole to raise a kid in. So, is there a trustworthy member of staff who can show me to my room?”
“This is not a hotel, Miss Kingfisher,” she snaps.
I finally turn to look at her and her face is mottled with anger. Good. I like rattling people.
“I’ll take that as a no, you don’t have any little flying monkeys to do your dirty work for you. I guess you’ll have to do then.” I snap my fingers at her. “Lead the way, Jeeves.”
A choked, enraged sort of sound comes from her but it takes her several swallows, her face burning red with indignation, before she forces out her words. “You may think your attitude is cute now, but we’ll see how long it lasts when you start treatment.”
I snort.
“And when will that be?” I ask nonchalantly, checking out my nails.I could use a manicure. “Because I feel like I could sleep for a week. Once I get laid.”
“Group therapy started ten minutes ago, the counsellors won’t mind if you’re late. Let’s go.”
“My file says I don’t play nicely with others. Are you sure you want to risk throwing them to the lion when I’m cranky, horny, and high?”
“Oh, I’m well aware of what your file says,Kookaburra. I think we can handleyoujust fine.”
I refuse to react to the stupid media-assigned nickname, or the vehemence in her tone. This woman despises me, and I don’t give a fuck.
I meant what I said to her though; I don’t play well with others. Well, unless you countplayingwith their dismembered body parts.
As therapeutic as that would be for me, I doubt that’s the type of therapy this witch has in mind. She gets to her feet, rounds the desk and marches to the door, her footsteps muffled under the plush carpet.
“Follow me. I will warn you that this establishment has the highest level of security in the country, using better than military-grade surveillance. There is no way of escape.”
“It’s people getting in you need to worry about,” I quip drolly. She doesn’t look back or break her stride, trusting that I’ll trot along behind her like a good little bitch. Like she’s the master and I’m the mutt. Laughable, really.
May as well follow her though. See what other losers they’ve dumped me in here with. Maybe I’ll find a new toy to play with. Maybe I’ll get laid. Maybe I’ll come across a tastysnack.
I’m in the mood for hotdogs.
CASE FILE- SNOW
Name: Callum Frost
Age: 22
Height: 5’9
Weight: 65kg
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Grey
Distinguishing Features: Tattoos covering majority of body (see file for photo catalogue), chest scar from knife wound – thought to be gang related.
Alias: Snow. Aka The Snowclone Killer
