Magnums
By Asynca
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"So," his voice drawled, as he took an audible drag of his Pieter Stuyvesant, "what are you wearing?"
Lara's eyes may have rolled audibly; not an easy feat with the phone propped between her ear and her shoulder, and a classic Five-Eye Forty disassembled across her lap. Somewhere in the background, Bach was playing on a tinny portable stereo. It was difficult for her to appreciate it, though, because a mosquito had somehow penetrated all the defensive layers of her tent netting and was buzzing irritatingly around her other ear.
"Look, Kurtis," she reasoned, rather than simply hanging up, "Either they offered you money to murder me, or they didn't. And," she told him, meaning it, "if you were stupid enough to accept it, then you're absolutely welcome to try."
He chuckled once: a low, soft, infuriatingly patronizing sound. She wished he were close enough for her boot to reach his nads. "You think that's why I'm calling you."
"Bit late to call for a nice chat, don't you think?" She swatted at the ambient mosquito, missing it, and in the process dumping the barrel of her shotgun onto the sandy tarpaulin. "Besides, your idea of a phone call is no greeting, some cryptic message of impending doom that's supposed to make me think how mysterious and clever you are, and then no contact for a whole year."
"Sorry," he apologized. He may even have sounded a little genuine, if amused by her annoyance. "So. How about this weather?"
"Kurtis, it's a simple question," she enunciated. "Do I have to keep my Magnums under my pillow, or not?"
There was a long, static pause where Lara thought he might actually have hung up on her. At last, he concluded, "Not." There was a smile in his voice as he added, "Unless those Magnums are Trojans, that is."
If Lara's shotgun hadn't been gutted, the phone wouldn't have survived Kurtis abruptly hanging up.