I opened my eyes. “There’s nothing to have out.”
His eyebrows shot up (he had great eyebrows too, by the way).
“Have you lost your mind?”
Ren asked this a lot.
“No,” I replied.
And this was always my answer.
His hand, still in my belly, pressed lightly as his face dipped closer. “Babe, straight up, last night you f**ked up. You’ve f**ked up before, but last night, you totally f**ked up. It’ll take me, Uncle Vito, your brothers, both of them, Marcus and pretty much every-fuckin’-body to cover your ass for the shit you pulled last night.”
Thus commenced the me-getting-pissed portion of The Talk, which usually led to the me-yelling portion of The Talk, and that moved into the Ren-yelling portion of The Talk, which tended to culminate in the me-stomping-out-portion of our talk (or, alternately, us having a hot, great, fast quickie, then I’d get dressed and stomp out).
“I saved Faye’s life last night,” I reminded him curtly.
“You got on some serious as shit radar last night,” he returned.
“I got them what they wanted.” I kept sharing recent memories.
“You got on radar,” he semi-repeated. “You do not want a single one of those men to know you exist. You really don’t want them to know you got access and skills. You dabble in this shit, Ally. It isn’t your life. It’s a pastime. You do not have a solid network. You do not have back up. You do not have experience. So far, all you’ve got is a shitload of luck and persistence. The first eventually is gonna run out. The second is gonna make it run out and get you into trouble.”
I didn’t hear a lot of what he said since I was stuck on a word he used close to the beginning.
Dabble.
“Dabble?” I whispered warningly.
I knew he caught my warning because we’d managed, even as f**k buddies (according to me), to spend a lot of time together the last year, so he could read me.
I also knew he caught my warning because he threw one of his long, heavy, muscled legs over mine and he got even closer.
“Ally—”
“Dabble?” My voice had risen as my eyes had narrowed.
“Do you get paid for this shit?” he asked.
“Not in money,” I answered.
“Then it’s not a profession. It’s a hobby. And it’s dangerous, Ally. And this is the last time I’m gonna tell you, you gotta stop doing it.”
My eyes narrowed further. My chest started burning and I opened my mouth to commence the yelling portion of The Talk.
* * * * *
Rock Chick Rewind
Backing up a bit, my name is Allyson Nightingale, but everyone calls me Ally.
And I’m a Rock Chick, in name and deed.
That is to say, I worship at the shrine of Rock ‘n’ Roll and I live the rock star life, doing what I want when I want how I want. When I’m not working as a bartender or backup barista, of course, and with a lot less money.
Me and my best friend, India “Indy” Savage (now Nightingale since she married my brother, Lee) have a posse called the Rock Chicks. It’s our posse mostly because we’re the band leaders, as it were, and being rock chicks, they’d be Rock Chicks.
So they are.