“How do you want it?”

Leaning comfortably back into the chair, arrogantly spreading your legs, you tilted up your head at the silken-voiced man.  “Just do whatever you usually do.”

“Aren’t you hot in all that?” he asked, eyeing your black and red pinstriped suit. 

Raising an eyebrow, you sat up, leaned forward, divesting yourself of your suit jacket, to uncover a black sleeveless tank, and your most important accessory…

Your shoulder holster. 

He raised an eyebrow.  “Is that really necessary?”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

His expression was unreadable.  “No.”

“Alright, then.”  Dismissing him with a cut of your eyes, you languidly reached for your pack of Gauloises, lighting one with your heavy silver death’s head lighter, and taking a deep drag, before leaning back.  You eyed him through the dancing smoke of the cigarette. “Did you bring what I asked?”

His eyes grew hooded.  “You asked for a lot of things.”

Blowing a stream of smoke, you fixed him with a look.  “Don’t be coy.”

He stared at you, then, his eyes roving your face, shamelessly drifting downward, as if he could find the answers to his silent questions in the lines of your body.  Then, with an almost imperceptible tightening of his mouth, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a baggie, tossed it to you. 

Catching it easily, you held it to the golden light of the dying sun slanting through the high, narrow western window.  “Is it pure?”

His shrug was easy, careless.  He fixed you with a look. “You won’t need that, you know.”

Eyeing him in consideration, you allowed yourself a crooked smirk.  “I bet I won’t..."