Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,66

in his voice and the tension in his shoulders.

I grab for the t-shirt and toss it back over my head.

“Fuck this. Fuck you. I can’t…” Pike doesn’t finish his thought. He shakes his head and tugs on his jeans. I want to explain. I want to tell him everything, but the words don’t come. I feel the gap between us widening, the connection we shared severing as he turns and walks to the door. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Rearing back, he slams his fist through the wall with an angry roar tearing from his chorded throat that I can I feel as if I were the one screaming.

My spine jumps as the door slams shut, leaving me alone while the storm continues raging outside and a new kind of torturous pain weaving its way through what’s left of my heart.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Pike

“You awake, sleepy head?” Nine asks, staring down at me.

Great, for the fucking second time, I had the fucking dream. What a way to start out the fucking day. Oh, that and remembering the fucking brand I discovered on Mickey’s shoulder.

I shift to a sitting position and rub my eyes, my back aches from sleeping on the cot in my office. There’s a pool of sweat on the cot, and more of it that drips down my back, but it’s expected since the A/C doesn’t run without power.

It’s been years since I’ve had that dream. A memory of the first time in my life I ever felt betrayed. After that moment, my entire life has been governed by one fucking rule.

Don’t let your guard down.

It was either the attempt to gain Mickey’s trust that did me in, or if it was more primal, my body responding to the overwhelming desire that’s been building for Mickey over the past few weeks, but somewhere I’d let my guard down and I’d let her in. Enough so that when I saw the mark on her shoulder, I felt more than anger.

I was…hurt.

Which is ridiculous since there’s no reason for me to feel hurt. It was eventually going to come down to this moment whether I saw the mark or not, but still, I wasn’t prepared for the boulder dropped on my chest at the sight of the Four branded into her fucking skin like a fucking farm animal.

Nine leans against my desk. “The hurricane’s over. Your shingles are a little fucked, and a tree fell into one of the warehouse panels, but other than that, you made it through better than most of the fuckers in this town. I almost didn’t make it through with all of the flooding. The roads are fucked, too. Trees and power lines are down everywhere. Preppy told me that King’s house is a shit show, so consider yourself lucky.”

When I don’t answer, Nine looks me over, twisting his lips. “No offense, dude, but you look like shit. What the fuck has been going on over here? Where’s Mickey?” He looks around my empty office and through the hall to equally empty pawn shop.

“Everything fucking happened here,” I grumble, pushing my hair back on my head.. “Mickey is upstairs, probably sewing my sheets into hoods.”

“Uh, care to elaborate? Or is she just really into crafting now?”

I blow out a long breath, light a cigarette and tell him everything.

When I finish, Nine just stands there looking like he’s been electrocuted. “Mickey? Mickey’s a fucking racist?” He sits on the edge of my desk and lights a joint, taking a deep drag.

“It appears so.” I take a hit of the joint he hands me and pass it back. “Of all of the fucking degenerates in this town, she has to be a part of the fucking Fourth Reich. The worst of them all. Their hatred doesn’t come from business dealings gone wrong or for protection, but from ignorance. The worst kind of criminal is an ignorant one.”

“Here here, brother. I wholly agree.”

Thorne walks in and slams down a Styrofoam tray on my desk. Coffee splashes out from the top of the four cups, splattering on my lap. I wipe it off my jeans with my hand.

Thorne makes no effort to help me clean it up or apologize. Instead, she stands with her shoulders back and places her hands on her hips. Her belly ring charm sways with the motion. It’s purple and sparkly and says fuck you. “She’s not a fucking racist, you morons.”

“Why hello to you, too,” I mutter, removing the least messy coffee