Apache Strike Force: A Spotless Novella by Camilla Monk

Author:Camilla Monk [Monk, Camilla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller, Spotless, chick lit, Romantic Suspense, Crystal Whisperer, 2016, Beating Ruby, Adventure, Action, Romance, comedy
Publisher: Yaypub
Published: 2017-07-12T18:30:00+00:00

SIX

THE PIGEONS

“He spread out his wings, blinding her with the pure white of his feathers, the perfection of his sculpted body. She crumbled to her knees, ready to worship his divine staff.”

—Lily Lion, Succumbing to the Billionaire Archangel

Maybe I should have counted how many glasses he’s had, I thought, as my dad staggered out of the brasserie. I had occasionally seen him buzzed, but certainly never drunk enough to demand that my former–hit man boyfriend go buy weed for him, “from those boys over there,” whom he noted appeared to be smoking some.

He waved a few crumpled bills at March, forced them into his hand, and pointed again at the little group of guys chilling—and yes, smoking—on the ledge of the Fontaine des Innocents.

“Dad, you can supply an entire frat house for 350 euros!”

“Good.”

March placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Simon, we should take you home.”

My dad clasped his hand over March’s and glared at him. “You want to be part of the family? Go get me some.”

“Dad!”

And in spite of my outrage, March did as he had been told—a touching testament of just how much he wanted to please my dad. With a sigh, he walked up to the boys and engaged in a lengthy negotiation. The group’s leader, a lanky teen with a black parka, kept waving his hands and seemed to become agitated as March repeatedly shook his head. The guy eventually relented and handed March . . . the whole bag. I followed my dad as he wobbled toward them to claim the prize.

Our dealer shook his head in disbelief and asked March, “Attend, c’est tout pour ton reup? Mec, c’est chaud, là . . .” Hold on, it’s all for your dad? Seriously, man . . .

March declined to comment, and the guys stared in awe as my father dragged me toward the nearest red-lozenge sign of a tobacco shop—because now, he needed “a helluva lot of paper.”

I’d like to reassure you that my dad did not ultimately smoke two ounces of cannabis in one single night. I think he rolled three joints, maybe four, as we strolled together up Rue de Rivoli and all way to the obelisk towering over Place de la Concorde. Bathed in the coppery hue of public lighting, the Ferris wheel stood still, and the food trucks were closed. A few taxis and trucks still circled the place, part of the murmur of the city at night. I huddled against March to keep warm while my dad emptied the rest of the bag of weed on the sidewalk, “for the pigeons.” It was three in the morning, and the temperature was under forty, so no, there weren’t any pigeons.

He didn’t want to head back, so we found a bistrot and settled there, drinking coffee while all that weed and Pinot wore off. Toward five, my dad lumbered to the restroom—presumably to throw up. As soon as he was out of sight, I scooted closer to March and stole a brief kiss.

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