Page 57 of Devilish Debt
She goes for a fucking swim.
Naked.
Dios no lo quiera…she does any type ofrationalshit.
I mean, if I asked for the record to be read back to us, it would furtherproverational isn’t in her reflected behaviors.
But come on.
Even the mostwell-adjusted criminalsdon’t shake off having a hit on them this fucking casually.
One hand is forcefully shoved into my pocket before tossing her a disapproving glare.“Really?”
“Really.”
“This is you helping?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?”More irritation pierces my stare.“Whoare you fucking helping right now?”
“Me.” Salay’s figure slinks onto the steps to better face me.“Let’s not forget thatI’mthe one who was almost filleted like halibut,counselor.”
Fuck, I tend to hate it when she calls me that inthat tone.
The label and the tone are almost always paired together.
Like tequila and lime.
When others use that title or a synonym?
It’s complimentary.
They use the title, they use theappropriate tone, and it taste like an aged shot of Patrón.
Something meant to be sipped.
Appreciated.
Praised for its complexity.
Time.
Effort.
Depths.
The legal system is far from simple and the grace as well as viciousness I manage to operate with is laudable.
But whenshesays it?
Whenshespews the branding?
It’s an insult.
Barely aged liquor out of its barrel.
Bullshit that some just graduated high school girl is gonna dump into margaritas she managed to make in her dorm room then get kicked out for making, only to have her daddy retain my services to get her reinstated.
