“There.” I unblock the number and hand my cell back to Michael, waiting with nervous butterflies in my stomach as he hits the screen with his thumb and makes the call. “No,” is how he answers the phone, his voice this low, dangerous razor of sound, “this isn't the quote crazy bitch on the phone, it's her fucking man.” Her man. I have to smile at that. “Yeah, motherfucker, you heard me. It's Michael Luxe.” Michael Luxe. I love his name, the way it rolls off my tongue. His first name's so ordinary, so plain, but paired with the unusual last name, it sounds … well, kind of like a rockstar's name.
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