The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue #2) - Jessica Hawkins Page 0,108
my eyes off Reggie.
Randy shuffles them off. Reggie straightens his suit and takes a pen out of the same pocket. His hand jerks as he writes out a check. “Beckwith, correct? So, how much will it take? Keep it within reason.”
“You think, just because you dress up and get your lazy ass driven around and you hire people to clean the piss and shit off your toilet, that you’re better than me?” I laugh, and this time it’s genuine. “You have no idea how wrong you are. You’re a bad man. And I’ll tell you, now more than ever, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Amelia away from you.”
He shakes his head, removes a card from his pocket, and hands it to me. “Call me when you’ve changed your mind. A guy like you wouldn’t turn down this kind of money for a woman.”
“A guy like me?” I ask. “You think you know what kind of guy I am?”
He looks me up and down. “Without a doubt.” He gestures behind him, in the direction of the city. “The kind who grew up within sight of everything but had nothing. Still has nothing, even after years of labor. The kind who gets desperate. It’s sad, really.”
I cock a smile. “Maybe. I’m also the kind of guy who can make a woman feel so good, she’ll offer just about anything I can dream up.” I lean in as he had, lowering my voice, getting chummy. “The kind of guy who loves to go where no other man has been before. Not even her husband.”
When he understands what I mean, he frowns. “She wouldn’t.”
“She would. And she fucking loved it.”
His nostrils flare, his skin reddening from his neck up. “Bullshit,” he sputters. I wipe spittle off my face. “If she did, I’d know about it.”
I chuckle. “Sure you would.”
He replaces his checkbook in his jacket as the redness in his face fades. “No, you’re right . . . I’d have no idea what she does behind closed doors. How would I?”
At the front of my mind is only one thing: Bell and Sammy are right around the corner. “Get off my property.”
He walks back to his car, and the door opens before he even gets there. He slides in and slams it shut.
“Yo, what the fuck was that?” Randy asks from behind me.
“A man with a small dick who has the need and resources to try and make up for it.”
“Damn,” he says. “I assumed because of your mood things were over with her.”
“They might be.” How did I end up here? I never thought I’d be pining over a prissy city girl who seems to have more interest in her wardrobe than my daughter. Only, I’m not sure I believe that’s true, even if she wants me to think it is.
“You could’ve taken the money then,” he points out.
I turn my head over my shoulder. “Would you have?”
“Obviously,” he says with a sniff. “But nah. Not really. Too fun to watch that clenched asshole squirm.”
My shoulders ease when I remember that Randy spoke when I couldn’t, and he knew exactly what to say. “Thanks.”
“We should’ve kicked his ass.”
“If only he’d come at us ten years ago.”
Randy blows out his cheeks with a sigh. “We’re getting so old, man. What happened to the days when we could just fly off the handle?”
Down the block, Pico leans out of the ice cream shop, checking that it’s all clear. I wave him over. Reggie put me in that position in front of my daughter. I have every right to be pissed, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Those days are over.”
TWENTY-SIX
My Camaro isn’t made for city streets. Confined by Lexington Avenue traffic, even though it’s Saturday, the car rumbles and protests each time we start and stop. Bell bounces in her car seat and accidentally kicks the dash.
“Watch it,” I say.
“Why?” she asks.
“You’ll mark up the leather. Just stay still.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Why?”
I hit the brakes a little too hard. “Because I hate driving in this fucking city, and you’re distracting me.”
“There’s valet.”
“Valet,” I mutter. “Do you think I’m made of money?”
“There,” she screeches, pointing at a pair of reversing taillights. A Honda maneuvers away from the curb, and I drop my foot on the gas. The car in front of us brakes and starts to back in, but I’m already partway there. The guy lays on his horn.