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of work is…unique,” Law replied, ever the inscrutable one.
    I scoffed. I was starting to believe him; how dumb of me. “Your line of work ?”
    He eyed me incredulously and repeated my words, almost annoyed. “Yes, my line of work. ”
    “As a fucking political puppet?” I couldn’t help my response. I wasn’t a seasoned liar—unlike the company I kept—so it was hard to keep my tongue in check.
    Law craned his neck to the side, eyeing me with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
    I fingered my gun again, in case things were about to get ugly. “I know what you do, okay? I know who you work for and I know why you’re out with me. Stop pretending.” I pushed my gun against my purse, so the outline was visible. “And just so you don’t get any funny ideas.”
    He eyed my gun, less than impressed. “What are you talking about?”
    “You have your reasons for needing the drug stopped,” I repeated the words Law had said to him icily. His face went ashen, just for a moment, before he narrowed his eyes on me.
    “What have you gotten yourself into?” Law asked.
    I shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
     
    By the time our conversation lulled, the sun was coming up, and people were walking by. We were still in the alley. I had one hand keeping him at a distance and the other on my gun. We had gotten nowhere. I didn’t believe him one bit but then why, why, why…
    Why was there a sliver of hope nestled like a shard of glass inside my heart, telling me that he might be for real?
    Because what was all that stuff about “his line of work”?
    And why did he seem so confused when I called him a political puppet?
    In the end I came to no conclusion about Law either way. He could have been evil incarnate, or he could have just been a regular asshole—an asshole who pays the tab, opens the door for me, and offers to drive me home.
    But still an asshole.
    An asshole I let drive me home.
    I told myself it was because if he was going to try and slither his way back into my life, then I was going to do it first. I was going to go black ops, rogue, whatever the name, and slither my way right back. I would understand everything about him and ruin him from the inside out.
    My fear, though, was that none of that was true. My fear was that I was weak, tired, and a little drunk, and that I let Law give me a ride home because my feet hurt. My fear was that I was not a rogue, that I was just plain old Nami DeGrace.
    When we reached my apartment, Law tried to open my door for me.
    “I can open my own goddamn door,” I growled.
    “I was being a gentleman.” I scoffed at that, shoving the key into the lock and slamming the door open so it ricocheted against the wall. Raskolnikov, hearing the loud noise, jumped from wherever he had been laying his lazy ass and proceed to bark and hop all around us.
    “Raskolnikov. No,” I said, the lack of enthusiasm evident. I walked past Raskol-the-jumping-bean and placed my keys on the table. A small, nearly microscopic part of me was smiling at Raskol’s guard dog attempts. He was tiny, but he was mighty.
    “Could you say something, please?” Law asked. “He’s biting my leg.” I turned around to see Raskol using Law’s pant leg as a chew toy.
    “Oh, bad boy, Raskolnikov. Don’t. So bad.” I shrugged and continued, “I guess he won’t listen to me. Sorry. Maybe you should go.”
    Law glared before bending down and picking Raskol up. Instantly Raskolnikov went from an angry chomping monster to a happy licking beast. He gave Law a furious kiss on the cheek.
    “I think he likes me,” Law said before setting him back on the floor. Raskol proceeded to run around the room about fifty times.
    “Traitor,” I muttered as he passed me on his sixtieth lap. Turning back to Law I stated, “He’s just lulling you into complacency before he strikes.”
    Law raised an eyebrow. “He’s very scary. What’s his name?”
    “Raskolnikov. Raskol for short.”
    “Like