She gave my handiwork her usual look. I never knew what to make of it, except that it wasn’t exactly ‘pleased’ or necessarily ‘approving’. The violence was always done at her bidding or for her sake, so that didn’t make too much sense to me. Then again, if women made sense to men this world would be a very different place.

“I’m going back in,” she tossed my way and sauntered back for the door. “Stay close, Grotto.”

“Don’t I always, toots?” Rather than answer, she leaned against the door jam, making a big pretense out of fishing a cigarette out of her clutch. I could tell she was thinking, as bad a habit as the smoking if you asked me.

“Rusty,” she cooed, all sweet and innocent, neither of which she’d been since I knew her, “there a reason you never call me by name, always using those little pet names instead?”

“Seriously, boss?”

“Yeah serious.” She lit up and stared me down.

I caved, “Boss, your given name is Tequila Ignacious McGee, and there ain’t a part of that I can say with a straight face.”