Page 55 of The Brat: Prequel
My lips quirk. “That’s quite apt, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t funny, Maxim.”
“Stop whining.”
He hisses, “So, you’re not going to ask her what her game is?”
“No.”
“You still want us to guard her like she’s a stolen crown jewel?”
“She is a crown jewel.”
“Excuse me while I vomit.”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to…”
“You can’t chop his hands off.”
“Says who?”
“Says me!” He’s sweating. Probably because he knows I’m a little bit a lot insane around Victoria. “Poughkeepsie isn’t like NYC. If people pop up with lost hands, questions are asked.” Before I can open my mouth, he declares, “And we’ve already done car crashes, accidental fires, that boat disaster, then there was that small jet explosion! We’re building a legendary curse of New York’s elite here.”
“Fuck.” I hate it when he’s right.
“You’re a life insurance assayer’s nightmare.”
I rub my chin. “A beating?”
He releases a relieved sigh. “Yes. We need to establish a triage-type system. Touching—a beating. A kiss?”
“Broken hands.”
“Plural?”
I grimace. “Singular.”
“Sex.”
My jaw works. “Both hands and a foot. Some injury to the groin.”
“At the rate she’s going, nobody will be walking in that frat house.” When I glare at him, he raises his hands. “Do you trust me to dispense the punishments sensibly?”
“Fine.”
“Stop pouting. I don’t want her getting arrested because the cops think she’s some black widow character.”
“Fine.”
“You’re still pouting.”
“If anyone hurts her, I’ll cut their dicks off. I don’t give a fuck what you say.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange how she always calls on you for help?”
“What do you mean?”
He hitches a shoulder. “She took self-defense classes.”
