Milana raises her eyebrows and puts down her spent cigar. “Hm.”
I roll my eyes. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?” she asks innocently.
“When you ‘Hm’ at me instead of just saying what you’re thinking.”
“Ooh, testy tonight, are we?”
“With good reason. I shouldn’t have killed that motherfucker. He deserved it, but I should have held back,” I growl, reaching for the half-empty glass of whiskey in front of me.
I don’t even want a drink. I just want something that burns going down.
“You should have,” she agrees. “But you were hopped up on testosterone. Tarzan protects Jane, ooh-ooh ah-ah. That kind of thing.”
I drop the whiskey glass down on the table in disgust, ignoring how it sloshes over the rim and onto my hand. “She’s not my woman.”
Milana eyes me with a knowing smile, then s
