Altman eased of a fraction of an inch.
“She kissed me,” he sounded like Elmer Fudd, or maybe Bruce Springsteen after a hard night of drinking. Either way it hurt like hell to manage the three words.
Altman blinked at him twice, then backed off enough that Drake slid down the wall until his feet hit the floor. It was such a surprise, his knees almost went out from under him as well. He hadn’t even known that Altman had lifted him up as easily as Perseus lifting up the Medusa’s head after chopping it off. For once Drake could sympathize with the mythic monster—it must have hurt even worse than this.
“Try explaining that one again,” Altman was still only inches away.
Drake wrapped his hand around his throat, impressed to find it wasn’t, in truth, severed. He didn’t risk the pain of repeat
