Page 37 of Bulletproof

“No?”

“No, Jory, I’ve never been busted for anything.”

I thought about that. “I could be wearing a wire.”

“You watch too much television,” he informed me with a grunt.

That was absolutely true.

“Four months is a long time.”

Yes, it was.

And Sam was in Chicago, but had made no effort to see or even call me. Sam completely ignored my questions about the woman draped over him on the yacht. Sam did not care that it looked like I was on a date. He had been, obviously, more concerned with the fact that Cristo Liron was a criminal. Possibly a criminal. I had no way to either confirm or deny the existence of a police record, as the person who would usually tell me these things was the same one who was working hard to ignore my very existence. It boggled my mind that he couldn’t even spare a two-minute phone call from a pay phone on his way to check in.

None of it would matter if I knew where I stood. And while I knew I was loved, I had no idea where he was with his life-changing decisions. Was he switching jobs, cities, priorities? And was I to be consulted on any of it? I had no idea. All I did know was that it felt like Sam had to decide between a job as a police detective and me. And if it came down to it, what could he really choose? He loved me, but the job was who he was. What right did I have to ask him to give up his identity for me?

I would tumble right down the rabbit hole if I kept thinking about it, so I made a conscious decision to stop.

“Angel?”

Back in the now, I took a quick breath. “We gotta get shit straight.”

“Like?”

“I just look stupid,” I told him. “But I’m really not. You wanna sleep with me.”

He choked on whatever he was drinking. I hoped he hadn’t dribbled.

“Jesus, Angel, do you have any subtlety at all?”

“Not so much, no.” I sighed. “So, tell me, what are you thinking is going to happen here?”

“I don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “Because I really have no idea what to make of you.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you saved my little brother, and you’re not afraid of me, and your ass has got to be the most perfect one I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“What does my ass have to do with anything?”

“I want to hold it in my hands.”

“But you can’t.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t make me want to any less.”

“So, maybe we shouldn’t hang out if that’s⁠—”

“I can control myself,” he said with a chuckle.

“But why should you have to? You’re hot. You can have anybody you want. Why waste time hanging out with me when it’ll just frustrate you?”

“Because I like you even more than I want to fuck you.”

“Yeah?” I was surprised and hopeful.

“Angel, you’re so pretty that my stomach hurts when I look at you, and I would be lying if I said the idea of fucking you is not something I’ve been thinking about since we first met.”