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“Serena? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whisper.
“Look at me.”
I blink my eyes open and lift my head. His expression is so full of concern.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, gruffer this time.
“Nothing. I love the way you touch me.”
He lifts an eyebrow and leans in to kiss my forehead, my cheek, and finally, my lips. “That’s good. Because I’m having trouble keeping my hands to myself.”
To demonstrate, he skims his fingers over my shoulder and down my arm. I shift closer to his big, warm body.
“Good thing we left early last night,” he says, continuing to stroke his fingers over my back.
We’d come home to Grayson’s parole officer waiting at the front door again. “He’s going to give you grief all year long, isn’t he?”
“Probably. As long as he doesn’t throw me back inside, I’ll jump through his hoops.”
I roll over what Wrath said last night. Am I supposed to call him and tell him what happened? Tell Grayson that he should let Wrath know?
“You’re so perfect,” he whispers. “Ain’t doing a damn thing to get taken away from you.”
“You better not.” I sit up and trace my fingers over his chest.
I’m really not looking forward to the lonely week ahead.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Grinder
Shaking off the wet and cold, I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. At the landing before the last set of stairs, my gaze lands on a stranger sittin’ on the top step. His arms dangle over his legs in a casual, yet somehow arrogant, pose.
I stop and stare. Something about him rings my goon radar. Don’t recognize him as one of my neighbors, although the gal across from me seems to have a lot of people in and out of her place.
The tall, lanky guy unfolds himself from the concrete, adjusts his ball cap, then lazily skips down the steps.
Sensing danger, I casually slip my hand in my pocket and curl my fingers around the handle of the knife I carry. Won’t do me much good if he’s planning to shoot me, but if it’s my time, I’m going out stabbing.
“Can I help you?” I ask in my least helpful voice.
He shoves his hands in his pocket and hunches his shoulders. “You Grinder?”
“Who’s asking?”
He looks me up and down. Irritating, cocky little fuck. I might stab him just for pissing me off tonight.
“You look good for someone who just got out of the pen.”
“Thanks. I don’t swing that way.”
That wipes the annoying smirk off his face. He swipes his hand over his chin, and my gaze lands on the lion inked onto the back of his hand. I’ve seen it before. Gang tat, I’m almost positive. Just what I fucking need if my P.O. decides to drop in.
“You validated, motherfucker?” I’m not going back to prison because this gangster clown showed up on my doorstep.
“Nah, I ain’t been inside for more than a minute.”
“Great. You mind statin’ your business? I ain’t in the mood for a social call.”
“Yeah,” he says in a lethargic, grating way that he no doubt borrowed from some low-budget gangster film. “I got a message from Big Chief for you.”
My body goes rock-still but my face remains expressionless. Fuck, this is bad. “Our business concluded when I walked out of prison.”
He steps closer. One more inch and I’m burying this knife in his belly and sawing my way to his chest cavity. “You think his reach don’t extend out here? Naw, man. That ain’t how it works.”
There’s no way Big Chief would trust anything important to this punk. More likely, now that he’s taken over running the prison, he wants to see how far he can push me.
My gaze drops to the lion tat on the back of his hand. “You’re a pay-for-a-day messenger. Your crew know you’re taking on side gigs for Big Chief?”
He quickly jams his hand in his pocket as if that’ll wipe my memory clean. This kid’s either really dumb or he hasn’t been in the game long. Sloppy little pissant.
“Don’t worry about me, Gramps. Worry about yourself.” He thrusts a piece of paper at me.
“I don’t want it,” I say, refusing to accept whatever the fuck it is.
“I did my job.” He throws the note down, then holds his hands in the air and skirts around me. “Big Chief don’t want your club involved, so I’d keep this to yourself,” he says before running down the rest of the stairs.
I consider following him. But even if I catch his license plate, I doubt it’ll help.
Fuck.
More annoyed than rattled by the visit, I bend over and pick up the slip of paper. It’s tempting to see what it says right now but I trudge into my apartment and slam the door behind me, first.
Inside, I set the note on the kitchen counter and pull a bottle of water from the fridge. I take a deep swallow before shrugging off my coat and hanging it on my coatrack.
