She laughs, despite herself, then covers her mouth.
“Don’t,” I demand, sliding out her chair.
“Don’t what?” she retorts. “We both know the Broody Brody demeanor was meant to spook me when we first met. I know you.”
“Don’t cover yer mouth when laughing. I want to see it.”
“Don’t say endearing things.” She sits. “Thanks.”
I grab my chair, positioning it next to Justice. “Just to ensure ye don’t make any sudden movements to leave.”
“Why not sit your gun on the table. Be blunt. Really show me who you are.”
“Elaborate,” I grit each syllable.
“You pretended to be someone other than who you are.”
“How’s that?”
“I-I—” She mushes herself lips together, eyelids fluttering away from me. “So, what’s on the menu this evening?”
My gaze never leaves her as some Black lad with a pretentious voice says, “I’m Vic. I’ll be serving you this evening. One more thing before we get to that.” As I stare at her, Justice is handed a piece of paper.
I cock a brow.
“It’s a note from Chevelle,” she mutters. “ ‘Brody, consider our temporary truce over. We’re forever family. No truce needed. Justice, remember the night the two of you met? Our convo after we dropped you off . . .’ ”
“Wit else?”
“Nothing much. She loves us and enjoy dinner.” Justice shrugs.
“What was the conversation about? Her telling ye to run from me, aye?”
“No. Me telling her.” Justice plays with her brow. “I was concerned she loved your brother too much, too hard.”
“Och,” I nod. “Because of the deid fecker.”
“Hey, you don’t get to call Lance—”
“Shite, I hate the bastard same as ye. If I could bring him back from the grave, I’d cut off his baws and shove’em down his throat.” I grip a knife in my hand. “See, ye asked for the bad fecker, well, here he is. The lad ye still love.”
“I’m going to enjoy this free meal. Ahem.” She turns to the server again, her mouth tipping into a shaky smile. “I apologize on behalf of his behavior for the entire dinner, Vic.”
“You wouldn’t believe who enjoys Le Fleur. Russian Bratva, one of which was a title-winning UFC fighter. Colombian drug lords.” Vic returns her smile, more confident. “We’re starting off this beautiful evening with a white truffle and Kobe beef tartare.” He snaps his fingers and the other lad wheels over a tray. In the center of each tiny silver plate looks like raw brains.
I ask, “Where’s the grill? You gonna cook that ground beef?”
“Sir, it’s not ground beef.”Vic reiterates himself, adding that tartare is not cooked.
I glare at the nugget.
“Um, no raw egg.” Justice isn’t paying me nae mind, and clearly, my death glare is going over his head.
He grins again. “Ma’am, the raw egg brings everything together.”
I tilt my head at Justice. “Ye have an issue with a raw egg and not raw meat?”
“Vic, please continue.” She tilts her head. A full-blown grin graces her face.