The Housewife Assassin's Handbook by Josie Brown

this the way you live at home?”
    “I don’t have ‘a home.’ No, I take that back: the Georges Cinq is my crash pad. By the way, they bring me my meals on a tray. Since I’m persona non grata here, feel free to do the same.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding me! Listen here, you lazy son-of-a-bitch, if you can’t be a gentleman and eat with the rest of us, I’ll give your plate to someone who’ll appreciate it: Lassie.”
    “Yeah, well, from what I saw while she and I were out and about, that dog will eat anything. Oh, and lady, while we’re on the topic: not to rub it in or anything, but let me burst any bubble you may have that you’re some sort of Martha Stewart fembot. The pot roast at the Cinq makes yours taste like a reject from the Chef Boy-R-Dee test kitchen.”
    “If you don’t like my cooking, feel free to eat at McDonald’s. And by the way, the laundry room is on the far side of the kitchen. If you can assemble an AK-47 in under thirty seconds, I’ll just bet you can figure out the settings on a Maytag washer. Otherwise, your expensive dress shirts can share the wash with Jeff’s grass-stained, muddied baseball uniform.”
    To make my point, I shove the laundry basket into his gut.
    He lets it fall on the floor. 
    That’s it for me. I fling one of the messy plates at him like a Frisbee, but he ducks. It skims over his head and shatters as it hits the wall. 
    For just a moment, the smirk on his face drops into a frown. His eyes darken with anger. He grabs me so fast with both hands that I don’t have time to react—
    What would that reaction have been, anyway? If it were to match Jack’s, my eyes would reflect the turmoil of emotions that are causing my heart to beat so loud and so fast. I know this, because my hand is now on his chest, trying hard to push him away—
    But for some reason, I’m not at all upset that he’s too strong for me to do so.
    Like Jack, I should be pursing my lips to keep from giving into the urge to press them against his. And I certainly shouldn’t be gazing into his eyes, which are that same shade of green as Carl’s. It’s a hue that refuses to fade from my memory. Even after all these years, it leaves me mesmerized.
    Slowly he lets go of me. He seems angrier at himself than at me.
    “Acme will spring for another day of maid service.” He is muttering so slow that I can barely hear him. “I’m not here to ‘play house,’ remember? I’ve got a job to do. And she—“ he stabs a thumb toward Nola “—will make it easier. She’s got a wandering eye and a big mouth.”
    It takes one to know one, I think to myself. But I have to ask, “How would you happen to know that?”
    “I ran into her last night—while we were walking our dogs.”
    “Oh? How convenient.” So, that’s where he really was last night. Figures. “By the way, Lassie is my dog, not yours.”
    He lifts the binoculars back into position. “Isn’t there someone you should be torturing besides me?”
    He’s right. So many gangbangers, so little time.
    “When Emma gets here, tell her to set up in the room over the garage. The key is on the hook beside the back door. I should be back in time to pick up the kids from school.”
    As if Jack gives a hoot. He’s too enthralled with Nola.
    I can’t wait for this mission to be over.

    Only when Xie Tong’s hard-on goes limp, and his hand slips from my breast (a club no-no, but there’s no one there to enforce the so-called rules) am I assured that the truth serum has finally entered his bloodstream. 
    About damn time.
    The injection was as noticeable as a pinprick. I nibbled playfully on his ear at the same time. Which do you think caught his attention?
    Go to the head of the class.
    The club’s hidden security camera is viewing a digital loop of the lap dance I just gave Xie. This six-minute feat of creative choreography buys me enough time to ask him the questions we need answered:
    Where did he get the uranium? Who did he give it