Che and Donovan, if I remember what Huck had said to them, though I had no idea which was which.
"Sit," McCoy demanded, pulling out a stool at the island.
And what other choice did I have?
I sat.
McCoy moved around to the other side of the island, grabbing a mug, and pouring coffee into it before passing it across the island.
"So, we're feeding the potential assassin. Interesting," another guy said. That one was tall and blond with dark green eyes.
"Alaric," McCoy grumbled at the man, a quiet warning to shut up.
"She's no use to us if she passes out from hunger," the guy who'd soft-voiced me declared, walking across the kitchen toward the fridge, grabbing cream, then a glass container of what looked like sugar. Making his way toward me, he put them down on the island. "Don't know many people aside from these fuckers who take their coffee black," he said, jerking his head toward his biker friends.
"Oh, thank—oh, hey!" I cheered when a cat appeared out of nowhere, jumping up on the island near me, arching up its back. "Hey, baby," I cooed, reaching out to stroke its white and gray fur, letting myself worry about my own cat for one short minute before reminding myself that he was practically human and had more than enough food and water to get him through. "You're a sweetie, huh?"
"Actually, he's Satan's own lap-cat," Huck declared. "And he's not staying, Remy," he added, giving the guy near me a stern look.
"I have a tendency to bring home strays," Remy admitted, waving a hand out, making me aware of the random cats, dogs, and one parrot gathered around.
"How could you not?" I said, picking up the cat, curling him into my chest since he let me, and I could really use a little affection right then. "My cat was a dumpster kitten. He was the only one of his family to live," I added. "He was the most gorgeous black and orange tortoiseshell color. Still is," I said.
"Does he try to claw your eyes out when you're asleep on the couch?" Huck asked, clearly having an ax to grind with the cat.
"He tried to suffocate me once," Alaric, the long blond-haired guy with the green eyes, declared. "Came into my room, and laid right over my mouth and nose when I was passed out."
"He only likes the women," Remy added, reaching out toward the cat in question, getting a nasty hiss from him.
"You know, I completely understand, buddy," I said, rubbing the cat's head. "Does he have a name?"
"Hellcat isn't good enough?" Huck grumbled.
"Oscar," Remy supplied.
"Like The Grouch?" I asked, smiling.
"Yeah," he agreed.
"Well, with a name like that, no wonder you want to hiss and scratch at them," I said, rubbing the cat's head for a moment before he jumped down again.
I felt oddly lost without him there as a distraction, but I busied myself with making my coffee slightly more palatable before cradling it between my hands and taking a sip.
It was then, too, that I noticed McCoy was moving around the kitchen, throwing something together.
For me.
The woman who'd tried to kill him less than ten hours before.
A couple minutes later, a plate with buttered toast and scrambled eggs were passed to me, making unwanted tears flood my eyes.
And that, that was what seemed to crack McCoy's very stoic demeanor.
If I wasn't so confused and scared and touched all at once, I might have found his wide eyes comical.
"Are you crying? Over eggs?" he asked, sounding choked. "Do you... is this a vegan thing?" he asked, looking more and more horrified by the moment as I reached up to wipe tears off my cheeks.
"Why don't—" Huck started, only to trail off when the back door opened, and in walked a little person in a really nice suit with a wholly ridiculous bowler hat on.
The man's gaze moved around to the gathered men for a moment before landing on me.
"What is going on here?" he asked in the kind of tone that implied he wasn't happy, whoever he was.
"Teddy, meet McCoy's attempted assassin," Huck explained, waving toward me.
"Why is she crying?" Teddy asked, seemingly unbothered by the whole assassin thing.
"Because of eggs?" McCoy said, holding his hands out.
To that, Teddy sighed, shook his head, and moved over toward the table. "She's clearly overwhelmed," he declared.
"By eggs?"
"By whatever is going on with her that made her try to kill you. And, I imagine, you being nice to her despite what she's done."
"I'm sorry, I just... it's been a really bad week," I told them all, wiping my cheeks again.
"Why don't you tell us about it?" Teddy invited, voice soft, kind.
"I was at work," I started, since that was the beginning.
"Lily's," Huck supplied.
"Yeah, at Lily's," I agreed, letting the memories flood back.
I'd started the day frustrated because there had been so much traffic that I hadn't had time to stop for coffee, and sure that was about as bad as the day was going to get.
Oh, how wrong I would turn out to be.
"And?" Huck prompted, making me realize I'd been playing the memory back in my head instead of explaining.
"And I was working the late shift. Which means aside from clients, I am pretty much always the only person there until closing. I was just cleaning up my work station when the door opened," I told them.
I hadn't even looked up at first, just calling out that we were closed, and that we were booked for the next week, but that whoever they were could call and make an appointment for when we had an opening again.
When I didn't get a response, I figured they'd ducked back out.
I was just neatly stacking the nail polish I'd used back into the display on the wall when a voice sounded, much closer than it should have been.
"I won't be long," he said, making my heart seize as I whipped around, my heart skipping into overdrive. Because while, yes, we had the occasional male client, they were rare. And any random man waltzing into a place of business when he'd been told it was closed couldn't have any good intentions in mind.
As my gaze fell on the man, in my mind I was calculating if I would have a chance to get back to the main desk to trip the silent alarm.
He wasn't someone I recognized, and he didn't fit what you expected from a male client at Lily's either. Generally speaking, when men came in, it was younger gay men, or older metro men.
But this man didn't fall into either category.
He was a little taller than average with the kind of skin tone that hinted at either Latin or mixed race, tan with rich, warm undertones, black eyes, black hair kept short, and a sort of average good-looking face. Nothing stuck out to make him truly memorable, but he wasn't hard on the eyes either. Just... average attractive.
"Was he wearing anything distinguishing?" Huck asked.
"No. Just long jean shorts and a black tee. No jewelry. And no tattoos."
"How old?" McCoy pressed.
"I'm not great with that. Maybe late twenties or early thirties? I'm not sure, though."
"Okay. What did he want?" Huck asked.
"One of you dead," I told them, picking up my fork, knowing I needed to eat even if my stomach felt wobbly once again.