They were light brown. I just noticed that. The shape and the eyelashes had taken all my attention so I missed that they were light brown. This was a little surprising considering his skin tone said he was a mutt and that mutt definitely included African-American. There was Caucasian in him, I was guessing, but no more than half. His skin was as perfect as the rest of him but dark-toned and not with Italian olive undertones but definitely black. Whoever’s genes formed him, they gave him the best of the both of them. At least in the looks department. Personality was seriously up for debate.
“Shoot up between the toes,” he explained and my thoughts went from the color of his eyes, the perfection of his skin and his luck with heredity to our annoying conversation.
“I told you, Walker, I’m not a junkie. I’ve never shot up anything, on my arms, between my toes, anywhere,” I stated then bit into the fry maybe a little angrily but still, what the f**k?
And further to what the f**k, why was he asking me these questions?
He studied me, eyes still blank, nothing working back there or nothing he’d give away. But his gaze didn’t leave my face.
This lasted awhile. It lasted while he chewed on his toast and I made a dent in my fries. It lasted long enough for me to wish he’d scan the restaurant or stare out the window again.
Then he declared on a low, knowing rumble, “You spread for him.”
I stopped avoiding his study of me and looked back at him. “What?”
“Surprising,” he muttered, going back to his fork and his pancakes.
I guessed as to his meaning and informed him, “I’m not Shift’s bookie.”
His eyes shot from his pancakes to me.
“Come again?”
“I’m not Shift’s bookie,” I repeated. “I don’t do a spread for him.”
He stared at me.
Then he whispered, “Jesus.”
“I work retail,” I told him.
He stared at me more.
“I’m a buyer,” I continued. “At Lowenstein’s department stores.”
He continued to stare at me.
Then he asked, “How’d he tap that?”
“What?” I asked back.
“A buyer for a f**kin’ department store. How’d Shift tap that?”
I shook my head again, my eyes narrowing and I repeated, “What?”
“Why do you,” he tipped his head at me as if I didn’t know who he meant by “you”, “spread for him?”
“I’m telling you, I’m not his bookie. He doesn’t place bets with me. And anyway, what bookie would run an errand for a guy like Shift?”
Jeez, maybe he had a hearing problem.
He leaned toward me and said quietly, “Spread.” I opened my mouth to reply but he went on, “Your legs.”
I blinked.
Then I got him.
Then my back went straight.