Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,41

standing right inside the fricking doorway.

There was no moment of confusion. I knew exactly who I was slamming into. Hence me scuttling back so the side of my face wasn’t pressed into the middle of his chest. I was pretty sure I’d have a bruise, hard as it was. And I would definitely be having to either burn my clothes to get his scent off them, no matter how faint.

He didn’t apologize for his big, muscled and great-smelling body getting in my way. He didn’t speak at all, just glared at me. Even though he was wearing Wayfarers, I didn’t need to see his eyes. His entire body was a glare.

“You make a habit of standing in doorways and giving people mild concussions?” I asked.

His expression didn’t change. That annoyed me. I wanted to evoke some kind of emotion in him. Especially rage, anger. Not the boring smiles Deacon gave me, as distracting as they were.

“You weren’t at home,” he replied. “Figured this would be the one place in town you’d be.” He glanced up at the bar, then back at me. “You’re still meant to be on crutches.”

“I’m fine,” I snapped.

“You’re stubborn, there’s a difference,” he replied.

I folded my arms. “Did you really come into town to try and shame my drinking habits and lack of crutches, because I’m certain that neither of those things are any of your business.”

“Agreed,” he replied.

I waited for more. For him to give something else that constituted a reason for him to be standing in doorways, plotting to break my nose with his chest.

Nothing.

I was not playing this game.

So, I moved toward my car. I didn’t get far.

“You’re not drivin’.”

I turned, my brow already raised, my eyes already narrowed. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t answer, just walked forward and snatched the keys that were dangling from my fingers. I didn’t have the presence of mind to decide to stab him in the eye with them first. The urge was there.

“I’m responsible for you. Driving with what I’m guessing is more than three whiskys on you, since I can smell it on your breath.” He made sure to pause, to hold my attention, to capture my eyes with his gaze. “And baby, I’m not saying I don’t like the smell of whisky on your breath, I just don’t like the thought of you wrapping yourself around a power pole ’cause your reaction time is delayed and your ankle isn’t up to drivin’ a stick.”

He was right. My reaction time was delayed, because I didn’t stab him in the eye. And handling a stick with an ankle I could barely walk on was no picnic. No way would I tell him that.

I was getting serious déjà vu rushing to catch up with him and retrieve my keys. I didn’t catch him until he’d stopped outside a black truck.

“This isn’t my car.”

“Can’t be that concussed.”

I gritted my teeth. “You need to give me my keys back. This is theft, I’ll report it.”

His glasses pointed in my direction. “Go ahead. Mick is an underpaid, overweight cop that calls the shots in this town and is lookin’ to cruise to retirement without issues. Despite his laziness, he’s a good man, who will be forced to ask you why you wanted your keys when your blood alcohol is over the legal limit.” He opened his door. “Get in the truck, walk home, or I’m sure Deacon would be happy to take you home.”

I bristled at his tone. Or lack of one. He sounded completely disinterested either way. Apart from his faint interest at my nipples for half a second a week ago, he didn’t show the same attraction the aforementioned Deacon did. It would’ve been the easiest option to march right back to that bar, slam another two whisky’s and take Deacon up on his offer.

Getting laid might even inspire me. It hadn’t before, but that said more about the quality of sex that I was getting than anything. Although I had the best vibrator in the business and even after multiple orgasms, all I wanted was carbs, horror movies and wine— not a laptop with an empty screen.

There was a first time for everything.

Deacon was easy. Interesting, maybe even weird. But not weird or interesting enough to inspire me. The easy choice never did.

So, I sent Saint one last glare before rounding the truck and hoisting myself in.

He didn’t say anything.

I didn’t either, though I had many choice words to sling in his direction. Instead, I concentrated on inspecting the