Somebody—not naming any names—wouldn’t let me leave the house until we went eight rounds over possession of my jacket. Again,” he adds, “not naming any names.” And then Nick’s wry, “It was the Archduke.” “Archduke?” Pace mouths, jamming his foot into a shoe. “Recruit?” I punch my arms through my robe. “Cat.” “Fuck.” He angrily pulls on his hoodie, brows crouched low. “Goddamn it. That’s a good name.”
