Dobie and Kenny both laughed at that. Lovely. She stood. “Where are we going, then?”
Swain stood as well. “You stay here, choux. Keep those allergies under control.” Motioning to Kenny and Dobie, he said, “C’mon, boys. Follow me.”
She watched, too stunned to say a word, as Swain led them off the porch and around the back of the house by the glow of his cell phone flashlight.
God dammit. She stamped a bare foot on the concrete. Her so-called partner had fed her a pile of “no flying solo” bullshit to con her into thinking they were a team of equals, then maneuvered her right onto the sidelines while he flew off, solo, to pump their targets for key information.
“Michael Swain, don’t you dare take a single puff,” she shouted into the night, “or you can just sleep out there in the woods.”
Stuck with the housekeeping, she poured the ice onto the fire, gathered up the beers, and went inside. Fiddling around in the kitchen killed a little time, but her level of annoyance increased with every minute that ticked by without Swain returning. How long did it take to stand around while two guys shared a joint? More importantly, was this his idea of a partnership? She’d baited the damn hook in less than two days, but oh, she could practically hear him in her head. Nice job attracting the minnows, choux. Now sit tight, and I’ll reel in the big catch.
Her role was clearly over for the night. She stalked to the bathroom, soaked a cotton ball with cleanser, and removed a shit ton of makeup with brisk, jerky movements. If he thought he was going to do the meet with Kenny and Dobie’s source while she sat at home, he had another think coming.
But, whatever. It’s not like she shouldn’t have seen this coming. She spit toothpaste into the sink, followed up with a swish of mouthwash. He was a natural born con man, by his own admission. Spitting the mouthwash into the sink, she acknowledged he’d once again proved it.
Still no Swain. Since he was apparently deep into his solo op, she went to the bedroom and changed into one of the nighties Ginny had brought—a hot pink tank-and-short set covered with big white polka-dots—and threw the short white robe over it. She considered taking the bed but decided violating her own schedule basically gave a point to him. Instead, she grabbed a pillow and took herself out to the sectional to stare at the news on TV and stew. She couldn’t even text Buchanan an update on the evening, since she didn’t have all the information.
At twelve thirty, Swain swung through the screen door, stopped short when he saw her on the couch, and squinted at her. “Do you happen to have a sleeping bag, choux?”
“You guys are camping? Now?”
He shook his head and, to her surprise, swayed on his feet a bit. “Uh-uh. But I am fucked up beyond belief just from standing out there with them. No way am I letting them drive home.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. Three stoned men to deal with. She dragged a hand through her hair. “They can sleep in the little room upstairs. It’s hotter than hell, but—”
“No way am I letting them sleep inside this house.” He squinted at her again. “Not a chance. I keep an all-weather roll in the Bronco. D’ya have anything?”
On a long-suffering sigh, she stood. “Yeah, I keep a blanket in the Prius.” A couple steps brought her to the kitchen drawer where she stashed her keys. “I’ll get it.”
Despite his bloodshot eyes, quick fingers divested her of the keys. “I’ll get it, then get them squared away out back.” He leaned in, lost his bearings a little bit, and bumped her. “You don’t need to set foot outside looking like that.” The knuckles of the hand curled around her keys ran down the front of her robe. “Guess you already know this, ma chouchoute, but you are sexy as fuck.”
“Okay, smooth talker, give me my keys. I’m the less impaired one here. By a long shot,” she added, and braced a hand on his chest to back him up. “It would be better for you to let me handle it, as you’re not thinking straight. That makes you a little risky, right now, don’t you think?”
“Nah. Not as risky as this.” He touched a finger to the small, white satin bow at the scooped neckline of her sleep tank. For a suspended moment, she simply stared at his fingertip resting above her cleavage, moving with the rise and fall of her chest. Before she could think of a reply, he swung away and headed to the door. Once there, he paused. “That blanket of yours—it’s not from Vandy, or the academy, or anywhere else that would be hard to explain?”
Maybe he wasn’t so impaired, after all, but then again, neither was she. “It’s a plain, old blanket.”
“Awesome. Back in a flash.”
She returned to the sofa and settled into the lounge end. “A flash” turned out to be seven minutes, according to her phone, but at last he slammed into the house, held up two fingers at her, and staggered to the bathroom. A couple minutes later, he reappeared, stumbled over to the sectional, and dropped onto it, facedown, his head inches from her hip. He smelled of soap and toothpaste. “Fuck me. That stuff they’re smokin’ is not the same shit we smoked in high school.”
“We? Speak for yourself.” She dug the remote out of the cushion and clicked the TV off.
He raised his head to eye her. “Never snuck a toke between AP Calculus and Honors English?”
“Not even once.”
“Well”—he laid his head down on the sofa again, facing the back—“take my word. Their shit is strong. I have a contact high that won’t quit.”
“Learn anything?”
“Yeah. Their shit is strong. I feel like we’ve already had this conversation. I feel like we had it hours ago. Have we been talkin’ for hours, choux?”
She rolled her eyes. “Go to bed, Swain. Sleep it off.”
“Good right here,” he mumbled.
“It’s my night on the couch.”