Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,39

it.”

He reached underneath the bar for a glass, then for the whisky. “You didn’t come here for conversation?”

I took the glass. “No. I came here for this.” I nodded my head. “I rarely go anywhere for conversation.”

He grinned, showing slightly crooked, white teeth. It suited him. The whole, “Bob Dylan” grunge look he had going on.

What he didn’t do was pick up the book again.

“Why would I read the book when I’ve got the author right here?”

I put my drink down and trailed my fingers along the glass. “Because the book is much more interesting, trust me.”

He raised his brow. “Ah, says the woman who bought a murder house without qualms, that caused the town recluse to venture out of his hideout, come and rescue you, and bring you into town to be brought back from the brink?”

I bristled immediately. Not just at the mention of Saint, who was the very reason I was here. At least three quarters of the reason. The rest was the bartender’s eyes and whisky they didn’t sell at the liquor store.

“I’m not someone to be rescued,” I clipped, draining my drink.

He wasn’t perturbed by my tone or what I knew was my third worst glare. He refilled my glass and nodded down to the book. “Oh, I know you’re not someone who needs rescuing. You’re someone to be rescued from.”

I smirked. “That was a close one. I was about to claw your face off.”

His gaze darkened. “Ah, I think I’d rather your claws in my back than my face.”

My stomach dipped in a way that surprised me.

Not the same way as the night of the nightmares and firewood.

No, warmer than that.

Simpler.

I waited for him to speak more. It was fun, playing this game with someone who actually spoke, smiled, had a personality that wasn’t walled up behind emotional steel and flesh and blood muscles.

To be fair, this guy had decent enough muscles.

More than decent.

“You don’t know my name,” he said.

“No,” I agreed.

He grinned when I didn’t say anything else. “You want to know my name?”

I shrugged. “You want to give it to me?”

His eye twinkled in teasing, showing me he was holding back making a tacky joke at my expense. “It’s not exactly a state secret.”

I titled my head, regarding him properly for the first time since I’d ventured in here. I’d appreciated his knack for conversation but appreciation for silence, his handsome, gruff exterior, and his top shelf whisky, but I hadn’t looked closer.

Hadn’t found his word.

And that was it.

Secret.

He had a lot of those.

Hiding behind twinkling eyes and an easy smile.

Oh yes, there was hard about him, but it went unnoticed because of all the soft edges his job whittled everyone down to.

“I’d rather know your secrets than your name,” I said finally.

His eyes stopped twinkling. He leaned down for a second glass and poured whisky for himself.

“I don’t tell secrets without whisky,” he said with a small grin.

I clinked my glass with his.

“Deacon,” he said after his first sip. “My name.”

I swallowed my whisky, savoring the burn and the prickling numbness moving toward my throbbing ankle. “I thought we were doing secrets.”

“Ah, eventually. I’d prefer you’d know my name first.”

“What kind of name is Deacon?” I asked. It wasn’t a name real people had, surely. Well, it shouldn’t have been a name real people had. It was a hero name. You didn’t give babies hero names in case they turned out to be the villain.

Kind of like me.

Deacon smirked and poured more whisky. “Seems to have done me well. What kind of a name is Magnolia?” He made a point to run his eyes up and down my head-to-toe black outfit, sharp wing and almost permanent scowl.

I raised my glass to him. “Touché.”

He watched me drink. “You gonna be okay to drive after all these?” He looked downward, at the foot that was still smarting, and black and blue underneath boots I’d all but stuffed my feet into. “You okay to walk?”

I normally would’ve bristled at such questions from both a bartender and a man. But I was feeling warm from the whisky and somewhat relaxed with this man and his secrets, his hand still resting on the cover of my book.

“Okay is never a word to describe me,” I replied. “But I’ll be driving and walking. Maybe I’ll grab a bite at the one restaurant in town that does not boast butter as their first ingredient.” I almost immediately nixed that idea, fearing people coming up to talk to me