Baddest Bad Boys(23)

But Julia simply wasn’t familiar enough with these drugs to ensure a lethal dose of anything. Too many risks, too many unknowns.

“So where did Jon go off fishing to, anyway?” she asked, in a just-making-conversation tone. “Did he go down to Rogue River again?”

“Oh, no,” the lady said. “He went up to Danny’s place, I expect.”

Julia blinked. “Danny’s place?” she asked. “Where is that?”

Crumbs clung to the old lady’s chin as she waved a gnarled hand. “Some cabin on a lake, up in the mountains. Jonny loves to fish.”

“Which mountains?” It was hard, not sounding eager.

“Oh, I don’t remember, if I ever knew. I must say, it’s about time he got a rest. He ran himself ragged putting away that monster, that awful Egg Man person. Poor Jonny deserves a bit of fun.”

Julia abruptly reconsidered the feasibility of killing Molly, but William shook his head in her mind, glancing at his wrist. The old crone was so close to death already, there would hardly be any point in it.

“I’m so sorry, Molly, but I must be running along,” she said.

“You’ll be back in a couple of days, won’t you?” the old lady fussed. “Jonny said you’d check in on me every two days til he got back.”

“Of course,” Julia soothed. “I look forward to it.”

She eased herself out the door. It took strength of will not to crush the old woman’s arthritically deformed hand when she shook it.

Monster. The mouthy old bitch. How dare she.

Julia swept by a chubby lady with frizzy hair and a white uniform pantsuit that emphasized the big span of her hips, waddling purposefully up the walk. Her nametag read Joanna Hirsch.

She slipped into her van and pulled away. Whew. That was close, but William had helped her. Time to find a hotel, take what bits of straw she had gleaned, and spin them cleverly into gold.

Amazingly, breakfast happened, despite the naked egg juggling. To say nothing of the death-defying knife toss display, which continued to freak him out of his skull. Robin scoffed at his wimp-ass lily liver as she yanked the carving knife out of the cedar paneling. A guy needed nerves of steel to hang out with this chick.

Although the steel part of the equation was being cheerfully provided by his indefatigable dick. Cooking breakfast naked had been a mistake. Cooking required concentration. Having his prong waving around in front of him, drooling with eagerness, was distracting. And the bouncing tits, and swinging hair did not help matters.

He was so titillated, he was about to explode. And his jaw and his gut both ached from smiling so much. Laughing so hard.

They devoured omelette, toast, fresh OJ, a heap of crisp bacon, and finished their meal both gazing speculatively at the last piece of bacon on the plate. Jon put a martyred look on his face and did the gallant thing. “Go ahead,” he sighed. “Take it. It’s yours.”

“Oh, no,” she said demurely. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“I insist,” he said, stoic to the last.

“OK.” She popped it into her mouth and crunched, eyes sparkling.

“Hey!” He scowled, betrayed. “You didn’t even share!”

She washed it down with orange juice, eyes sparkling. “I grew up with two hungry brothers. I know how to grab food before it vanishes.”

Jon grunted. He could forage like a stray dog too. Not in all the foster homes he’d lived in, but many of them, it had been every kid for himself. Though he’d tried to look out for the little ones. When he could.

Robin sensed his shift in mood, and her face went somber. “Sorry. That was dumb. I guess you must have had it a lot worse than me.”

“Aw, I did OK. I was a big, bad-tempered punk,” he said shortly. “I didn’t get messed with too much. It’s the weaker ones that suffer.”

Robin reached across the table and touched the tiny medallion at his throat. She stood up and bent over the table, tits dangling before her, squinting to make out the tiny image in relief on the gold surface. Two angels, bending over a baby in a cradle. “What’s this?”

He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit he had when he was thinking hard. “It’s a baptismal medallion.”

“Are you Catholic?” She looked fascinated. “I never even thought about your religious bents before. Call me shallow.”

“No shallower than me,” he said. “I never thought about them, either. I was born Catholic, I guess. And I was baptized, evidently. My mother’s name on my birth cert is Maria Grazia Amendola. Father unknown. She must have been Italian Catholic. She died shortly after I was born. This is all I have from her.” He fingered it. “I never take it off,” he admitted. “Don’t know why.”

“I know why.” Robin circled his chair, leaning against him and nuzzling the top of his head. Her warm weight felt great. “So? If you’re not Catholic, are you something else?” she probed.

He shook his head. “I don’t bother with that stuff.” It was hard to concentrate, while his back was so occupied feeling how the tight little nubs of her nipples rubbed him, in such exquisite, tingling detail. “I don’t really believe in anything much. Except justice, maybe.”

“Justice?” She sounded puzzled, but curious. “Believe in it how?”