Chapter Eight #4
She laughs nig. It hits me harder than it should.
“Any allergies?” I ask.
“That is romantic.”
“It’s useful.”
“No. You?”
“Authority.”
“That is not an allergy.”
“Tell that to my record.”
Her smile fades before she can stop it. I see the thought cross her face. Dangerous man. Criminal man. Bad choice sitting too close.
I keep my voice even. “Nothing involving women or kids.”
Her eyes come back to mine.
The answer ain’t pretty, but it’s necessary.
She nods. “Okay.”
“You got family besides August?”
Her face changes.
Not big. Not dramatic. Just enough to tell me I stepped on a bruise.
“Not really,” she says. “My mother is gone. My marriage was not exactly a family. August is mine.”
My jaw tightens.
I want to ask too much. Want to know every detail of the man who made her say marriage like it tastes bad. Want to find him and explain a few things with my fists.
Instead, I nod. “August is good people.”
“He is five.”
“Still good people.”
She looks down at the fries. “You?”
“Club is family. Blood gets complicated around here.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
“Do you always warn women you fake date?”
“Only the ones who look like they might believe the pretty parts too quick.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
There ain’t much pretty about me. I know that. I am road scars, bad temper, ink, leather, and a name that came with too many stories. But she looks at me like she is trying to decide if dangerous and safe can live in the same body.
I hope like hell they can.
For her, I want to try.
She clears her throat. “Do you have hobbies?”
“Riding.”
“That is transportation.”
“It’s religion.”
“Anything else?”
“Fixing things.”
“People?”
My mouth flattens. “Not unless they ask.”
That settles between us.
She eats another fry like she needs something to do with her hands.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Hobbies?”
“Yeah.”
“I used to read.”
“Used to?”
“Life got loud.”
I nod once. I know plenty about loud lives.
“What kind of books?”
“Mystery.”
My grin comes slow. “That right?”
“Do not make it weird.”
“Too late.”
“It was escape.”
“Ain’t judging.”
“You look like you are judging.”
She takes another sip of Firestarter. Still hates it. Still drinks it.
I point at the glass. “You like it?”
“No.”
“You keep drinking it.”
“I’m stubborn.”
“Yeah,” I say, eyes on hers. “I noticed.”
The booth gets too small.
The whole Fire Pit is loud around us. Glasses hitting wood. Bikers laughing. Cornbread running his mouth behind the bar. Somebody arguing near the jukebox like volume wins facts. But none of it cuts through the quiet that drops between me and Amelia.
She reaches for a fry the same time I do.
Our fingers brush.
She stills.
I still too.
Then I pull back first.
Not because I don’t want to touch her.
Because I do.
That is the damn problem.
“So,” I say, voice rougher than I want, “if anybody asks, we know favorite colors, food, music, allergies, family, and hobbies.”
“And that your exact birthday is classified.”
“National security.”
“And that you are allergic to authority.”
“Severe case.”
“And I sing badly.”
“Looking forward to suffering through that someday.”
Someday.
Hell.
That word has no business sitting between us over fake dating and fries.
She looks away first. “This is supposed to be fake.”
“Yeah,” I say.
I take a drink of Firestarter and keep my eyes on her.
“I know.”
The music changes to something with more guitar and less sorrow. Someone whoops near the dartboard. Cornbread yells at a man to stop using top-shelf bourbon for cocktails unless he wants his ancestors disappointed. Amelia looks toward the noise, and instead of shrinking, she smiles.
One drink. One ride. One hour without August needing her. One hour without Jeremy in front of her. A basket of fries. It should not be enough to make a woman look reborn.
Maybe it ain’t. Maybe it’s only enough to remind her she ain’t dead. That will do for tonight.
I nod toward the small open space near the jukebox where a couple is half-dancing, half-arguing with rhythm. “You dance?”
She laughs. “No.”
“That no like Widowmaker no?”
“That was a survival no. This is a dignity no.”
“Dignity is overrated.”
“Says the man named after a drunken night, pretending motorcycles are horses.”
I grin. “That line had bite.”
“I used to have a mouth on me.”
“Used to?”
Her smile fades a little. “Jeremy didn’t like it.”
“Jeremy ain’t here.”
As soon as I say it, I wish I had not.
Because Jeremy is here.
Not in body, maybe, but in the way she checks the door. In the way she measures laughter. In the way she looks guilty after enjoying a drink.
She sets the glass down. “No. He’s not.”
Then she slides out of the booth.
I blink. “Where you going?”
“To dance badly before I change my mind.”
Well.
Hell.
I get up, and the room notices again because apparently I’m now public entertainment.
Amelia walks to the open space like she is marching toward execution. Her shoulders are tight. Her chin is up. She looks ridiculous and brave and sexy enough to make my back teeth ache.
I stop beside her. “You want me touching you?”
She looks around.
People are watching.
Let them burn their tongues.
Her eyes come back to mine. “Hand.”
I offer mine.
She puts her fingers in my palm.
Not much.
Just fingers.
It still feels like getting trusted with something loaded.
The song is slow enough to be dangerous but not so slow the room gets ideas. I keep space between us at first. One hand holding hers. The other nowhere. She notices and rolls her eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“This isn’t dancing. This is escorting me across invisible ice.”
“You said hand.”
“I did.”
“That’s what you got.”
Something like warmth moves over her face. “You are impossible.”
“Frequently.”
She takes half a step closer.
My body goes still.
“My waist is okay,” she says.
My mouth goes dry.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I put my hand at her waist.
Not lower.
Not tighter.
Just there.
She inhales, and I feel the breath move through her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“Words.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m okay.”
So we dance.
Badly, at first.
She was right. She doesn’t dance so much as survive music with effort. But then Cornbread starts clapping off beat, because of course he does, and someone at the bar laughs, and Amelia looks so offended by the entire situation that she forgets to be scared.
Her hips loosen.
Her hand settles more fully in mine.
The red of her mouth curves.
When I turn her, she laughs.
God help me.
That laugh is worse than the lipstick.
The room changes too.
At first, they watch like gossip hounds.
Then they watch like maybe they are seeing something they are not supposed to admit touches them. A woman who came in pale and guarded now laughing in the middle of a bourbon bar with a biker who has never been accused of sweetness by anyone sober.
I hate them for seeing it.
I want them to see it.
Both.
Halfway through the song, she steps closer, not because she has to. Because she chooses.
Her body brushes mine.
My hand tightens at her waist before I can stop it.
She feels it.
Her eyes darken.
Not fear.
Something else.
The same lust I’ve been fighting that climbs my spine with dirty boots.
The song ends.
Neither of us moves for half a breath.
Then clapping starts from the bar, loud and stupid. Cornbread whistles. “Hell yeah, Panty Lady!”
I release Amelia before she can feel trapped.
Then I turn on Cornbread. “You want to die on neutral ground?”
He looks around. “Can you do that?”
Royal’s voice comes from somewhere near the back. “Technically, yes.”
I had not even seen him come in.
Of course not.
Amelia laughs again, breathless, cheeks flushed.
Then she stops.
Her gaze has caught on someone near the entrance.
I turn.
A woman stands just inside the Fire Pit like the room owes her silence.
She is in her fifties maybe, neat gray-blonde hair, a high-necked floral dress, sensible shoes, and a little gold cross at her throat.
She has the kind of face that smiles at funerals because grief gives her something to organize.
I have seen her around Pearly Gates events.
Not one of Crowley’s loudest sheep. Worse.
Quiet kind. The kind that brings casseroles and collects secrets while the dish is still warm.
Ruthanne Peck.
Hell.
Her eyes are on Amelia.
Not curious.
Not kind.
Purposeful.
I step closer to Amelia. “You know her?”
Amelia’s hand tightens around mine before she realizes she is still holding it.
“No.”
Ruthanne walks toward us with a gentle smile that makes my palms itch.
“Amelia,” she says, like they are friends from church.
Amelia’s shoulders lock. “Do I know you?”
“No, honey. But I know your husband.”
There it is.
The room goes quieter.
Not silent. The Fire Pit knows how to listen under noise.
Ruthanne looks at me briefly, then dismisses me like men with tattoos are furniture she disapproves of. “Jeremy is worried sick.”
Amelia’s face drains.
I keep my hand where she left it. Holding hers. Waiting for her to let go or hold tighter.
She holds tighter.
“Then he should rest,” she says.
Oh, I like that.
Ruthanne blinks once.
The smile returns. “I understand you are upset. Marriage can be difficult. Women carry so much emotion. Sometimes we react before we pray.”
Amelia’s grip is ice cold.
I want to put Ruthanne through a table.
Neutral ground, Derby.
Neutral ground.
Ruthanne steps closer. “A woman should be careful whose protection she accepts. Some men save you because they want to own what another man broke.”
That one hits.
I feel it go through Amelia like a blade.
The whole room seems to hold its breath.
Because it’s a good shot.
Cruel. Clean. Aimed right at the fear Amelia already carries.
My voice drops. “You need to walk away.”
Ruthanne looks at me with fake sadness. “I’m only speaking truth.”