Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,59
twists her lips in thought and then flashes me a smile. A smile so unexpected and undeserved that I feel it both in my cock and in my chest. “That, I can work with.”
I take another drag as the cats finish their food. When they’re done they descend on Mickey who's crouching on the ground accepting their grateful gifts of affection with pure joy on her face.
She is a living, breathing crazy cat lady.
She’s also going to pretend like I didn’t say anything, and I’m going to pretend like this entire scene isn’t fucking adorable and that her ass doesn’t make me want to rip down her jeans and shove my tongue in her…I shake off the thought to make my dick calm down. The last thing I need is Mickey thinking that a bunch of cats makes me hard.
Over the past few days, I’ve met with leaders of several organizations with ties to Logan’s Beach. Gutter tagged along, and after each meeting, he’d shake his head and say. “It ain’t him, kid.”
To top it all off, there’s a fucking hurricane coming.
After a few days, I’m surprised that no one has come for Mickey. I haven’t left her alone, but I’ve done as I said I would do and have dangled her like bait, giving her just enough freedom to be seen, but not converse, with dozens of customers and suppliers, even some of the ones who come through the backdoor. Not one person has recognized her and nobody’s storming my shop with guns-a-blazing ready to take her back.
Maybe, I’m not the only one using her as bait. Maybe, she was meant to be left behind.
Why? I don’t fucking know, but conspiracies are all I’ve got right now and the only explanation as to why someone would leave a soldier behind.
Music and laughter floats through the alley from Hanson’s, the bar next door. Which gives me an idea. “Come on,” I say, grabbing Mickey’s hand and dragging her away from the cats.
“Where are we going?” she asks, reluctantly setting the runt down on the pavement. It mews as we head toward the back door of the bar. I almost feel bad for the little fucker.
“The bar?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “Rage said it’s dirty.”
“Rage thinks everything is dirty. The storm’s coming, and we’ll be holed up for a few days. I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink before that happens.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “You mean not enough people have seen me dangling, and you want to make sure the gators are circling your bait?”
I open the door and wave my hand. “Smart ass,” I mutter as she laughs and steps inside.
The bar is full and smells like beer-battered everything and sweat, but as we make our way to a table, the raucous laughter dies down as the head of every biker and degenerate in the place whips around in Mickey’s direction. She doesn’t seem to notice as she perches herself on a stool and rests her elbows on the sticky high-top table, but I know she does. She’s too intuitive not to notice the whispers and appreciative glances.
Another thing I learn as I stare down every fucking biker in the place is that I’m protective of my little captive, and that the next man who eye-fucks Mic is going to get a face full of my fucking fist.
Two women I recognize and possibly have had in my bed at the same time wave at me from the bar.
“Friends of yours?” Mickey asks, rolling her eyes.
I lean in close. “Maybe. Why? Jealous?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I blink away my surprise. Mickey is jealous. If that jealousy means she wants me as much as I want her, I’m more fucked than I initially thought. I run my hand down my face. “Of all the things you could’ve chosen to be honest about, that’s what you fucking go with,” I mutter, irritated at the throbbing in my jeans. A waitress sets two beers down on the table and leaves. I tap on the glass with my nail. “I think that’s the first time you’ve told me the fucking truth.”
She writes her name in the condensation on the outside of her beer. Her face remains expressionless yet contemplative. “In my experience, it’s not lies that get you killed. It’s the truth.”
She’s right. Irritatingly so.
I’m fixated as she trails her finger around on the bottle, drawing circles around her name. I adjust my position on the stool and avert my gaze