"Careful," she warns.
I tilt my head. "With what?"
Her gaze flicks over me once—not shy in the slightest—before settling back on my eyes. "With asking questions that you might not like the answers to."
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. There she is.
"I don't mind answers," I tell her quietly. I let my gaze drop—just briefly—to her lips before coming back up. "I mind lies."
"Sometimes omissions make it easier to… get along," she lowers her gaze.
"I'm not Pete; there is nothing you can say or do that will shock me."
Her head snaps up so fast I almost regret it. The name lands harder than I intended. She coughs, a small, sharp sound. For a second, I think I pushed too far. Hell, IknowI did. But thenshe stills. And just like that, it's gone. Whatever cracked open a second ago seals back up, piece by piece, like it was never there. When she looks at me again, it's different.
"The truth is, I used to be someone else."
I find that hard to believe. My men dug deep. I've seen pictures of her from birth to her wedding to that asshole. Even after. She's always been Audra Hale, née Connor. "What kind of someone?"
Her gaze drifts past me for just a second, out toward the city. She's not really avoiding me; it seems more like she's sinking back into long-forgotten memories.
"The kind who didn't flinch," she admits.
My fingers tighten slightly around my glass. "Before you met your husband, I assume." There is no way that loser would have had the nerve to ask someone like Audra out, not the way she must have been back then.
Her eyes flick back to mine. "Yes."
"Who taught you?" I ask.
I have a feeling this answer will matter more than the rest. She pokes at a piece of meat with her fork. Still trying to figure out how truthful she should be with me.
"I want it all, Audra." I catch her gaze when it lifts, hold it. "I want to know all about you. The good, the bad, and the ugly."
She lets out a derisive sniffle. "Nobody wants the ugly."
"I do," I emphasize.
She doesn't blink; I give her the time she needs to make up her mind. Then I remind her, "You watched me kill people."
Not many people get to do that and live. I leave that part out, though. It serves as a reminder that she can trust me.
"There was a man named Razor."
Fuck me. The name lands, but I don't let her see it. If she's talking about the same Razor I know—and I doubt there are many men named like him—then this… Audra, the Mexicans,all of it, just moved up another level. The Razor I know is the president of a motor club—The Black Canyon Reapers. And their name just popped up for a second time in the span of under a week. That is not a coincidence. They smuggle weapons through the desert, buying them from Mexican cartels, which would explain Audra's familiarity with firearms. Explain the lack of fear.
What it doesn't explain is how she walked away. Neither the Mexican Cartel nor the biker club are known for letting witnesses to any of their crimes disappear.
"How did you get out?" I want to know, though I think I already know the answer. Pete.
Audra traces the rim of her glass with her finger, not really drinking, not really eating either. Thinking. Rewinding.
"I was… rebellious," she admits.
There's a faint edge of pride in her voice. I don't interrupt. She glances out over the Strip, the lights reflect in her eyes, and it seems like she's somewhere else entirely.
"Back then, my mom had this boyfriend," she continues. "For a while, I thought he might stick. Might actually… become the father I always wanted." A pause. Her lips press together briefly. "I didn't even like him," she admits, a quiet, almost self-aware huff of breath follows it. "But it didn't matter."
She looks down at her hands. "I just wanted a dad."
