Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,3
apartment at night to, at the very least, trim it—so it fell down to the small of my back. It was piled into a haphazard bun that looked effortless and chic, but which really took twenty minutes to perfect.
My makeup took a little longer, even if, to the untrained eye, it looked like I wasn’t wearing any. Most women knew that the “no makeup” makeup look was the longest to perfect. My pale skin was flawless, thanks to layers of foundation perfectly matched to my skin tone.
Lips that were red enough to look endearing and natural all at the same time, though it was a little touch of filler that helped me along the way. Ditto with my Botox.
I had a seven-step beauty routine. Morning and night. My skincare products combined could’ve bought a reasonable used car.
I looked good. At a price. Always at a price.
And it seemed none of the things I did to move myself from a firm eight to a nine point five were working on Father Time in plaid.
“That your car?” he said by greeting.
I stopped walking, mostly out of a surprise from the greeting, and also because my heels were Manolos and there was a mud-filled pothole right in front of me.
I glanced back at the BMW, black, sleek and expensive. I didn’t really know much else about it because I wasn’t a car person, beyond the image I wanted it to portray. And the image I wanted to portray was that I had money, resources, and could make a quick getaway.
“It’s a pretentious piece of shit,” he said, lighting up a smoke from a packet in his front pocket.
I smiled. Not something I usually did with strangers, or anyone else. It gave the wrong impression. But I couldn’t help it. This man was gruff, rude, and obviously not at all impressed by me. I loved everything about that. This helped to quell some of the bone-clenching panic I’d been struggling to contain since I turned down this road.
“Thank you,” I said, skirting the puddle while he watched me do so.
“You lost?”
I observed the gas nozzle. It was old fashioned enough not to have a credit card reader on it and looked easy enough to work. I hadn’t pumped gas in what seemed like an age. In New York, my car sat in a parking building that cost me the same amount as the rent on a studio apartment.
The man did not seem inclined to help me, which made me continue to like him.
“Why would you think I’m lost?” I asked him.
He raised a brow, not replying, but looked pointedly from my car to me as I started pumping the gas.
“Fair enough,” I muttered.
He didn’t push conversation while we waited for the car to fill up. Just stood there, smoking his smoke, probably not at all a safe distance from someone pumping gas, not looking the least bit worried about social graces or the prospect of blowing us both up.
“I bought a cottage.” I offered the information about three quarters of the way into the tank. It was the first time in recent memory I’d done something like this. Gave a stranger a piece of information they didn’t need nor have the right to. In my opinion, strangers, or even people that shared blood with me, didn’t have any rights to get anything from me.
It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable in silence with a stranger. I preferred it. I enforced it.
But now, with this strange man endangering my life, I broke away from my shield of rudeness and cruelty. A little.
He took a long inhale. Long enough for the tank to fill.
“Ah, Emily’s place,” he said finally.
There was an edge to his husky voice. An edge I recognized. An edge of death. Of darkness.
I guessed the history of my new home wasn’t going to be a secret around here.
But secrets were still waiting for me.
They always were.
I glanced to the tank for the price of my gas, then regarded the small store behind the man. After fastening the nozzle back on to the rickety pump, I grabbed a wad of twenties from my car, crossed the distance between us, and handed them to him. He took them with oil-stained hands.
“You’re not gonna last long, New York,” he said finally. There wasn’t a hostility to his voice. No threat. Just knowing.
I smiled. “Ah, I’ll surprise you.”
The corner of his mouth ticked ever so slightly. “Women tend to do that.”