Page 64 of Talk to Me

“I’m sure you know a wide variety of ways to injure me, Mr. McQuade.” Locke’s retort was all him, sass intact. “That doesn’t excuse bad table manners or the fact you made a huge mess in the kitchen and didn’t clean it up.”

“The pair of you resemble one of those old married couples on television.” Remy…

He’s with them, too?

How?

“Married couples?” McQuade snapped. “What are you talking about, mate?”

“I’m talking about those old sitcoms where the couple bickers constantly.” Remy didn’t bother to hide his amusement, it filled every crisp syllable. “I told you, don’t call me mate.”

Surfacing from under dark water, I had to shove myself upward. I wasn’t sure what hurt more, my arms or my legs. Why was I even swimming? I could just sink back below the waves…

“I think he means Odd Couple,” Locke suggested. “Though for the record, they weren’t married.”

McQuade actually snorted. “The old black and white with Jack Klugman? Yeah, they acted married.”

“Black and white?” Locke sounded puzzled. “How old are you?— Ow.”

“Behave gentlemen,” Remy said, his tone casual. “I don’t want to have to separate you.”

Their voices filled the darkness, chasing away some of the pain. If I woke fully, would I still hear them? Were these snippets of memories merely relics left behind to taunt me, a bait and switch as it were. When I opened my eyes, would I be right back in my cell awaiting a new day’s torture?

I didn’t want to wake up if that were the truth. It might be better if I were dead. They’d never get what they were looking for if I died.

“Tell you what, Your Lordship, we gave the Brits the boot a few centuries ago.” You could practically hear the smirk in Locke’s voice.

“Clearly,” Remy stated. “It’s why you Americans cannot consume enough media about the royals and crave all things James Bond.”

“It’s the accent,” McQuade deadpanned.

“I’d think it was the gadgets,” Locke countered.

The dangerous notes had dropped out of their voices, the humor and familiarity rushing in to replace them. The oddness didn’t fit. They didn’t know each other at all as far as I knew. They didn’t know who my other clients were and I never shared information about them with the others.

So how the hell did they know each other…

Were they now in the cells too?

Fear galvanized me, yanking the shroud of sleep away as I burst upward and opened my eyes. The room around me was dark, though there were nightlights on at two different points adding a dim bluish-tinged glow that didn’t bother my eyes.

I was in a bed. An actual bed and the air smelled like pine and lemon cleaner. There was that detergent scent you got from fresh sheets—like the one laying over me.

“The gadgets were cool,” McQuade admitted. “Though the idea of a watch laser is fucking stupid. He had a gun, most of the time, he only needed the gun.”

“I could think of times that a laser would be useful.” Locke’s musing aloud was him. “Still, I preferred Pierce Brosnan to Timothy Dalton.”

“Brosnan was fine,” McQuade said. “He did smarmy Brit real well.”

“He’s Irish,” Remy corrected.

“Well, you’d know—Remington.” Locke sounded downright gleeful.

“My name is amusing because of a character that Brosnan played. Well done,” Remy said. “I would applaud you, but it wasn’t that funny.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Locke exhaled. “Should we check on her again?”

They were here and I was in a bedroom of some kind. Was this some new torture? I pushed back the sheet and had to halt at the pinch and pull on my right hand. Peering in the darkness, I could just make out the glow of the lights reflecting on the hint of tape.