Daring Devlin (Lost Boys #1) - Jessica Lemmon Page 0,16

so he said. It was his playbook. I just followed the rules.

“Nice shiner,” he said as we sat.

I tracked my hand along my face. Luckily, my hair hid most of the damage around my eye, but my split lip, colored an ugly purple-red, looked pretty bad. Donna at the counter must have a thing for rough guys. Which was alarming, because she looked too gentle for my taste, and I wasn’t rough with girls.

Unless they ask, I thought with an internal smirk.

But I didn’t piss where I ate. I’d crossed a line when I went to Rena’s house. Wouldn’t happen again. Sonny encouraged charming the staff, but bedding the staff was discouraged. We had to be careful who found out what we did. Our kind of power drew women like butter, but it didn’t mean we had to stick our fingers in and taste.

“Hey.” Sonny slapped the table, jarring my thoughts away from—where else?—Rena. Something about drawn butter and tasting her had nearly flattened my last brain cell. I feigned fatigue, pulling my hand down my face.

“Yeah,” I said. “You should see the other guy.”

I’d told Nat my injuries were incurred in a bar fight. On the ride home, I’d elaborated, explaining (even though he hadn’t asked, nor would he have) that I’d had too many shots of tequila, and some guy had looked at me sideways. Nat didn’t talk much, but if he had repeated any of those details, that was the story I’d have to stick with for now.

Donna showed up with Sonny’s coffee and my Triple Threat. I groaned with no small amount of ecstasy when she slid the paper plate under my nose. Oak & Sage had a peppercorn-encrusted filet, a poached halibut in lemon sauce, and a wall of chocolate cake that would make Donna, here, cream her panties, but a slice of Sonny’s Pizza rivaled them all.

I took a huge bite. Groaned again.

Sonny chuckled. “You make my heart feel good, kid.” He sipped his steaming coffee. “So? Talk.”

I swallowed my bite and carefully brushed my injured lip with the napkin. My mentor didn’t do much bush-beating. Unless you counted the chicks thirty years his junior he banged on a fairly regular occasion, ha-ha.

I wiped the grease from my fingertips and then dragged an envelope out of my pocket and dropped it on the table in front of him. “Benny’s,” I said of the eight hundred dollars inside.

Sonny extracted a pen from his front shirt pocket and jotted something in his illegible shorthand on the outside of the envelope. I never wrote anything down. Since I could remember figures as easily as my name, I didn’t bother. Plus, no evidence.

“Travis is dodging me,” I told Sonny. “I’ll go to him.”

“No need.” He chuckled again as I took another bite. He didn’t bother counting the cash I’d handed him, stuffing both the envelope and pen into his shirt pocket. “I got a hold of him. Or, well…” He shrugged and smiled a mean smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nat got a hold of him.”

Literally, I imagined. Sonny had bypassed me entirely. I tried not to be offended.

“Nat was in the neighborhood,” he explained, picking up on my thoughts. “He talked to Travis. No visible work-over. Can’t say the same for you.”

I polished off my slice and wiped my hands on a few cardboard excuses for napkins.

“Donna! Pepsi!” Sonny called. A moment later she scuttled out from behind the counter and delivered my soda. “Anyway,” he said after she’d gone, “Travis will be in to see you tomorrow to pay in full.”

I nodded.

“Paul?” he prompted.

“Working on it,” I said.

Stone silence greeted me. I ventured a glance at him and found a matching stony glare. I supposed I ought to elaborate.

“Must be out of town.” Another lie. I locked it into memory and leaned back in the booth. “He didn’t answer his door and there wasn’t a car in the drive.” I sipped my soda and talked to fill the air. “I’m returning to work tomorrow. I’ll stay in the kitchen.” There was no way I could walk the dining room looking like a spent punching bag.

“Pickups?” He meant the visitors who would be coming in to drop off their payments. “Want me to send Vaughn?”

I felt my lip curl. Karl Vaughn was Mr. Slick. In a slithering way. Like, if you shook his hand, he’d leave a trail of slime on your palm from the tons of pomade he pushed through his hair. Fucking hipsters. He’d