Page 49 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
“Knitting?” I suggested.
“You think this is funny,” Shaw snapped.
Dick. “No, I don’t think it’s funny that you’re in his house and making accusations.”
“We haven’t made any accusations,” Cameron said. Crystal blue eyes scanned me, cataloging my words, my reactions. I straightened.
“Where does Colin go out at night?” Shaw asked.
“He’s with me.”
“Every night?” he prodded.
“Pretty much. Is this some sort of interrogation technique? Divide and conquer. It won’t work.”
“There’s been an increase in illegal trafficking the last couple of months,” Cameron said, interrupting Shaw’s words. “Shipments at night, that sort of thing.”
“Then Colin’s not your guy.” I let suggestiveness color my next words. “He’s with me all night.”
Shaw opened his mouth, but Cameron cleared his throat.
“Why don’t you leave your cards? I’ll let him know you stopped by.” I gave them my best smile, otherwise known as a baring of teeth. I may not like what Colin did for Philip, but let there be no confusion about whose side I was on. If they came here looking for an in, a mole, thinking because I was new here, I wouldn’t know what was up, then they were shit out of luck.
Shaw sneered, but Cameron stood. I stood myself, aiming for nonchalance but failing miserably as they paraded out the front door to the porch.
The quiet one turned back, a card between his forefingers. “I’ll be around if you ever want to talk.” He glanced past me toward Bailey. “You may not be safe here.”
A shiver wormed through me, and I took the card.
“Nice cat,” I heard just as I slammed the door shut.
What cat?
I glanced back at Bailey, whose fingers were clamped around the tail of a big orange cat. Must’ve slipped in when those idiots had taken forever to leave.
“Shit,” I said.
“Sit,” said Bailey.
Double shit. I stomped around toward Bailey, and the cat darted away. Apparently Bailey had chosen that moment to let go. Of course she’d side with the litter pooper.
I tiptoed into the kitchen where the big cat was licking a sticky spot of syrup on the counter that had escaped my morning cleanup.
“Bad cat,” I said. Which turned out to be stupid, because the cat leaped off the counter—with surprising grace for his size—and ran back into the living room.
“Sit!” cried Bailey as I made a wide dash around her toys to follow the cat up the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later, panting and sneezing, I tumbled the cat out of my arms and onto the front porch.
“This isn’t a shelter,” I told those big, glassy eyes.
I shut the door.
That wasn’t quite true. It was a shelter, but it was full. No vacancies.
I turned around and shrieked. “What are you doing here?”
Shelly pushed off from the wall she’d been leaning against. “You said to go around back.”
