The words wrap around my neck like a noose and I slam back in my seat. “I’m just making conversation, Christ.”
“Well, stop.”
I don’t respond, taking some time to watch her as she drives, my eyes soaking in her features, the dark eyeliner and long lashes doing nothing but highlighting the almost perfect bone structure of her cheeks. Her hair is thrown in a messy bun and her black tank top stretches tight against her breasts. Goddamn, she’s beautiful.
“You do this often for your dad?”
She peeks at me. “I do it enough.”
I nod toward her outfit. “Why the skirt? Not really the best attire for dealing with drug dealers and coercing money from shops.”
Her jaw clenches. “Worry about yourself.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “You’re so uptight. I think you need to get fucked again. How long has it been?”
She doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss the way her knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.
Satisfaction teases my middle and I quirk a brow. “Was it me?”
She snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m just asking.” I throw my hands up, palms facing her.
“It’s painfully predictable that you’d expect my emotions to be tied to whether or not I have a dick inside of me.”
I shrug, grinning. “Just working off experience, sweetheart.”
“Quit calling me that. I am not your sweetheart.” She tightens her grip on the wheel.
“Ever heard of manifestation?” I retort. “You gotta speak things into existence. Maybe if I say it enough, you’ll stop being such a bitch.”
The car rolls to a stop and she turns to look at me, those brown eyes sucking me in like a vortex. “So that’s it then?” She licks her lips. “You think I should find another man who can throw me up against a bathroom wall and fuck me until I scream?”
My abdomen clenches and my mouth dries. “Couldn’t hurt,” I somehow manage to rasp.
Her gaze flicks down. “No, I agree. Definitely couldn’t hurt.”
My eyes narrow, but I don’t speak again, not wanting to give her more ammunition to hurt my pride. I can’t tell if she’s just being catty or if she’s trying to tell me something, and either way, I don’t feel like playing her games anymore.
The car gets quiet, nothing but the simmering irritation lingering in the air between us. It allows me time to get lost in my thoughts, watching the streets zoom by as we drive, memorizing the layout in case it’s somewhere I’ll need to know for later.
Before long, we pull up to a small group of buildings in the main strip of Kinland, parking directly in front of Anderson’s, a sub shop.
“You strapped?” she asks.
My stomach tightens, and I glance at her, lifting a brow along with the hem of my shirt. Her eyes drop to where a sliver of my stomach shows and continues her trek down until she sees the gun holstered at the waistband of my pants. I hate how good it feels to have her eyes on me.
She swallows and turns off the car, her arm barely brushing against my chest as she reaches over the console and opens the glove compartment.
A whiff of something floral and earthy hits my nose, and my cock jerks. I grit my teeth, disgusted at my body’s reaction. Get it the fuck together.
She pulls out a rose-gold Desert Eagle, and my eyes widen as I watch her caress it lovingly.
“Big gun for such a little girl.”
“You know, you really have an obsession with size.” She pulls back the slide to chamber a round. “Wonder why that is?”
She grabs the bottom of her black skirt, sliding it up her flawless skin. My veins heat and my stomach cramps as she exposes her leg inch by torturous inch. I want to look away, know I should look away, but I’m transfixed as she continues to lift until a thigh holster appears.
I swallow a groan. Fucking hell.
She slips her gun into its place before dropping the skirt back down and smoothing her hands over the fabric. “To answer your earlier question, skirts allow easy access.” She looks up at me. “But you know that already, remember?”
Flashes of me pushing her skirt up around her hips and sinking into her race through me, and I bite the inside of my cheek, my cock now so hard it aches.
Before I can even formulate a thought, she opens the door and hops out.
“Come on, stalker. Let’s go get our dues.”
12
EVELINE
Benny Anderson is a short man with an attitude. He thinks because he’s lived in Kinland for the majority of his life that means he runs the place and everyone in it. Out of all the people we deal with on the streets, he’s by far the worst. But he does have connections and he is one of our middlemen, the guy all our low-level drug dealers grab their inventory from, and the ones they pay their dues to.
The fewer people who have direct contact with us, the better.
Normally, I’m not the one even doing these pickups. But when there’s a need, here I am, and the fact that Benny’s drop was short fifteen grand creates the need for a special visit.
My gut pinches as we walk inside Anderson’s sub shop, the weight of my Desert Eagle heavy where it sits against my thigh. I glance over at Brayden, irritation twitching beneath the surface of my skin at just the sight of him. I really, really, don’t want him here.
In all honesty, I wanted this to be a solo gig. I don’t need muscle to back me up, and if there’s going to be some, I’d rather have Zeke at my side. I’m not fully convinced Brayden wouldn’t use me as a shield to protect himself instead.
Brayden whips by me as we walk, cutting in front of me to grab the door first. He grips the handle and yanks it open, the bell above the door jingling. For just a moment, I think he’s showing chivalry, holding it open for me to walk through, but when I step forward, he lets go, slamming the door in my face.
Asshole.
I fling my foot out, wedging it in the crack before it shuts completely, and grab the knob, stepping inside. Brayden’s already in the center of the room, ignoring me completely.
The smell of deli meat is strong and it makes my stomach churn. As I walk through the room, I meet the eyes of patrons scattered throughout the various small white circular tables, not missing the way they all avert their stares, taking small glimpses when they think I’m not paying attention.
Holding my head high, I push my shoulders back and step up to the front register, next to where Brayden’s already lounging against the counter.
He crosses his arms, staring out at the room, the muscle in his jaw pulsing. “Why are they looking at you like that?”
I glance behind me, ignoring the way my palms start to sweat when I wonder what they’re thinking. Nothing good, I’m sure. “What other people think of me is none of my business.”
He makes a face, twisting toward me and lifting a brow. “That sounds like something someone says when they care too much.” He moves closer to me. “You don’t care what I think about you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t think of me at all.”
He grins, that stupid boyish smile that lights up his eyes and shows the obnoxiously perfect dimples in his cheeks. “So you do care.”
“Do you ever shut up?” I snap, slamming my hand on the little bell.