“You and I need to have a chat,” I announce.
“You sure we didn't chat enough earlier today?”
I take in the bruising on his cheekbone and the dried blood at the edge of his nostril. Must’ve been a bleeder. The thought makes me want to smile, but I keep my expression locked down. No use pissing him off again. Not when I’m here to make a deal. My gaze flicks back to his. “Maybe I have more to say.”
“More to say, huh?” With a slow nod, Morgan opens the door the rest of the way.
Well, would you look at that? Seems he has something more to say, too. The question is, what? What could this asshole possibly think he has to win by us talking? He already knows he has what I want. The question is, what does he want? A niggling hits the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again, searching the premises. There still isn’t a soul in sight.
Oblivious, Morgan walks toward the worn couch where Violet’s dad was passed out the last time I was here. He collapses onto it. “Make yourself at home. I know I have.”
Casually, I glance left and right, searching for anyone who might jump me if Morgan gives the order, which, considering this morning, is a very real possibility. A guy is in the shoebox-sized kitchen. His ass is plastered to a folding chair, and his eyes are glued to his phone. Otherwise, the place looks empty, but I can’t exactly see through walls. There could easily be someone hiding in Violet’s room or the bathroom, but I’m hoping it isn’t the case. If push comes to shove, I can handle these two. More, though? Well, I’ll be screwed.
I’m not stupid. I shouldn’t have come alone, but my brothers don’t need to be here to have my back, and if anything happens to me in Drift territory, they’ll burn the entire town to the ground.
With a bored expression, Morgan watches me from his perch. “So, are you gonna start talking or…?”
I step inside and tug at the sleeves of my shirt. “You and I have a problem.”
Morgan’s mouth lifts as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. After crossing his ankles on the coffee table in front of him, he threads his fingers behind his head. “Do we?”
“Yeah, I think we do.”
“Strange, ‘cause from here, things look exactly how I want them to.”
His muddy boots on the coffee table mess with my head. It takes me a second to realize why. Somehow, it feels even more disrespectful than when it was littered with Violet’s dad’s beer bottles. Not sure how it’s possible, but…
My attention flicks from the brown sludge to Morgan’s smug expression. The sooner we finish this conversation, the sooner I can throw the bastard out of Violet’s house. “Why’d you go to the coffee shop this morning?” I ask.
“Maybe I was craving some coffee.”
“And maybe you were trying to stir up shit.” Holding my stare, he lifts one shoulder but doesn’t bother denying it. My respect for the bastard rises a fraction. Asmallfraction, but a fraction, nonetheless. At least he owns up to it. Being an asshole. Running my tongue along my upper teeth and under my top lip, I decide it’s best to cut to the chase. “What do you want for it?”
He tilts his head. “You mean for the house?”
I nod.
Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he spreads his arms out wide along the back of the worn flannel couch as if weighing his options. “Let’s see. What do I want? I dunno, Jag Off.” He looks around the weathered house. “I kind of like this place. Slap a bit of paint on it, and it could be a real looker. Kind of like your girlfriend.”
I hold on to my indifference, determined to keep a smokescreen over my emotions. Yeah, motherfucker. I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m not taking the bait.
“Speaking of your girlfriend,” he continues, “If you’re worried about her not having a home to go to, I already gave her a key. I’d be more than happy to?—”
“We’re discussing the house.”
“Right.” He snaps his fingers and yells, “Pete! Get me and my guest a drink.”
“Not thirsty,” I tell him, but Pete—or at least, I assume this asshole is Pete—rushes in from the kitchen with two beers in hand.
Ethan takes one and twists off the cap, tossing it on to the ground like it’s his own personal garbage can. After taking a long pull of the alcohol, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “All right, then. So, the house. Like I said, I’m a fan of the place. And I earned it fair and square.And, since you aren’t interested in discussing it’s connection with the girl you’re fucking, I don’t see what else there is to talk about.”
The girl I’m fucking? My molars grind, but I force my jaw to relax. “What do you want for it?” I demand. “Money?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Call me a sentimental prick, but seeing the look on your face when I opened the door is even better than money.”
“Surprised you can see at all with your swollen eye.”
His mouth lifts. “It’ll be fine by morning.”
