Page 37 of Direct Action

I felt the back of my neck start to tingle.

“Why do you think that?” Pete pushed.

“For one, he’s sharp, and I mean that as in he can read people and do that on the fly. He understands with a deep appreciation that life’s a game, and he was either taught how to play it or he was born with a finely tuned bullshit meter. But even if he knows it and can outplay those around him, he’s quiet about it. He doesn’t show off his wealth or his superior intellect. He’s a man who likes to be underestimated. Now, why do you ask?”

“In other words, you know him well,” Gavin put in, and that tingling turned into pinpricks.

“I’ve seen him three times and served him once.”

“You got all of that from serving him drinks . . . once?”

“I’ve worked in a lot of bars,” she told me. “I can call a dickhead snob as soon as I approach a table, I don’t even need them to speak. It’s in the way they present themselves, the way they sit, the way they look around the room waiting to see who notices them. And if they were able to hide that, as soon as they order, I know. It’ll be the most expensive liquor, but it will also be a brand that’s recognizable so everyone around them will know just how expensive. And they’ll be dismissive to the help. New money especially. Then there are the ones like Mr. Blackwell who have it but don’t feel the need to shove it in your face—but only because they hide the dickhead within under the guise of being down to earth. They’re overly nice to the help, because, you know, they’re good guys who happen to have money. And they order just below top shelf because they think it’s trending not to overly indulgent. Just to say, he was drinking Hirsch bourbon.”

Depending on the bar, Hirsch was a hundred and fifty a pour. Not cheap by any stretch, but a man of Sterling’s affluence could afford something more exclusive.

“Did you get anything else from him?” Pete asked, with more than a hint of respect.

“Anything? Like what?” Her gaze bounced between me and Pete.

But instead of looking curious, she looked cautious.

“Did he hit on you?”

I didn’t need to see Gavin’s smirk to know my question came out as an accusation, but seeing it coupled with Chloe’s narrowed eyes was confirmation.

“I don’t see how that’s your business,” she snapped.

Right.

I had the woman’s panties in my pocket. I’d fucked her, wrung multiple orgasms out of her, and she’d pulled a mammoth one out of me. Not to mention, when that happened, there’d been nothing between us, no condom, no pulling out, which meant right then she was sitting on my couch pantyless with my come still inside her. So, considering all that, she was fucking crazy if she thought it wasn’t my business.

Before I could remind her of this, Fallon came back in with Chloe’s purse dangling from the crook of his arm, my phone and a can of Red Bull in one hand, and my keys in the other.

“Can someone please explain to me why women’s purses always weigh a ton?” he asked the room, then Chloe. “What the hell are you packin’, woman? A week’s worth of provisions?”

Chloe rolled her eyes, the way women did when men made stupid comments, then put a voice to her thoughts. “Can someone please explain to me why men always feel the need to question the contents of a woman’s bag?”

Fallon shrugged. “Mainly so we have something to give a woman shit about, since they’re always shoveling it our way.”

“It sounds to me like you surround yourself with the wrong kind of woman. And just to say, because I feel it’s my duty to stick up for the sisterhood, not all women shovel shit.”

And that was the truth of it—Fallon had shit taste in women. It’s said that some women pick men who are like their fathers. In Fallon’s case the reverse was true—he picked women who were like his mother—bitches who had an opinion about everything, and to communicate their opinion, they busted his balls and expected Fallon to snap to and get with their program.

Fallon handed Chloe her purse and tossed me my phone. I didn’t bother checking it before I leaned back and shoved it into my pocket.

“Shit.” Chloe popped back to standing. “I . . . um . . . have to make a call.”

The way she sounded, the steel that infused her spine, making her back ramrod straight, and the tension that had drawn her shoulders back did not communicate concern Poppy had been blowing up her phone. That wouldn’t’ve been a surprise, since that was the reason her purse had been retrieved. This was something entirely different.

“Chloe—”

“I’ll be right back.”

Then without giving me another shot to ascertain the urgency, she bolted.

I gave it a beat, considering her obvious need for privacy and how she’d feel about me intruding. But I only needed that beat to conclude I didn’t give the first fuck if she wanted privacy. The stiffness and the swiftness of her departure, not to mention the look on her face, was enough to propel me to my feet.

“Before you go check on her, you need to know I ran her,” Fallon told me.