Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
When he slides into the booth opposite me, I’m toying with a sugar packet, studiously not looking at him. I’m pouting and I know it. I have the sense to be a bit ashamed of myself. I look up. He looks disheveled, hair just a bit messed up, shirt rumpled.
What the hell was he doing?
“I’m sorry. I got held up.”
“I was worried,” I admit.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“I’m here. Everything’s fine,” he says, his voice tight.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I say, a challenge more than a question.
“There’s no problem. I know this is different from the places I usually take you, but I’ve loved this place since I was a kid. They have the best pancakes. You have to try the pecan caramel ones,” he says, handily changing the subject.
“Jack,” I say, pulling my hand back.
I look him in the face, see a flush high on his cheekbone. His eyes are bright, a little wild.
“Why didn’t’ you kiss me?” I ask, suspicious.
“Not that I don’t want to. It’s a family place. It’s not a romantic setting.”
“You’ve kissed me on a park bench in the middle of the day, and that’s a family place,” I challenge. Something is going on and he isn’t telling me. I’m not sure if I am more offended that he thinks I’ll ignore it or angry that he doesn’t just come out with it.
“I was carried away. That happens a lot when I’m with you,” he says ruefully. “It’s probably a shock to see that I can be appropriate in public.”
“You were appropriate at the charity gala. It was like an old-fashioned movie, walking in on your arm, dancing to the orchestra. What are you hiding, Jack?” I say, exasperated. “And let me see your other hand while you’re at it, the one that’s been in your pocket. If you try to tell me I’m imagining things, I’ll walk out of here. Show me your hand and come over here and kiss me if nothing’s the matter.”
He slides out of the booth and comes to me then. I reach for him, taste the whiskey on his breath before our lips meet. He isn’t a man who drinks heavily or in the afternoon. I let him kiss me, mind reeling. He’s breathing harder than he should be, and there’s a tightness around his mouth. I touch his chest, feel the sweat soaked fabric and my hand slides down his body of its own accord, searching until I find it. The sticky wetness of blood on his side. He draws a breath in sharply and I reel back, looking at him.
“Don’t say it’s just a scratch,” I whisper. “We’re getting out of here now.”
I toss five bucks on the table and nudge him out of the booth. We go to the parking lot and I ignore the protests that he’s fine, he’s had worse.
“Yeah, I’m sure you rode on horseback for three days and then caught the outlaws, cleaned up the whole town and they made you sheriff for life,” I snap. “What the hell are you thinking? You should be at the ER, or at least calling me to check you out. What happened?”
“There was a skirmish. A lieutenant of mine got overexcited and made a threat. Our new associate took offense and when I tried to break it up, I took a knife to the side. It was one strike. The guy who did it practically shit himself when he realized who he’d stabbed. He was going for the dumbass who started making threats and didn’t see I was in the mix until it was too late.”
“You’re saying you don’t blame the guy who stuck a knife in your gut?” I say incredulously.
“Honest mistake,” he smirks. “If he was trying to hit me, he should’ve gone for the heart or the throat. Because if you can’t kill me in one strike, you’ve made a very stupid mistake. Fatal even.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Did you tell someone else to kill him?”
“No. I was running late to meet you. I slapped a handkerchief on it, applied pressure. Had a driver drop me off while I drank out of his flask.”
“You drank so I wouldn’t see you were pale,” I say grimly. “But you couldn’t kiss me because I’d taste it.”
“I thought I was really clever there,” he says. He’s sitting in the passenger seat of my crappy car, letting me drive. “Are you going to dump me out in front of the ER or what?”
“We can’t go to my house because my dad is there. Not that he wouldn’t be thrilled to entertain a wounded Mob boss and try to leverage his silence to get a line of credit from you,” I practically spit the words, knowing it’s true. Knowing my dad won’t be discreet or respectful. “I’m taking you to Bettino’s. There’s first aid crap there, and I can clean out your cut, see how bad it is. You feel faint?”