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I took advantage of that move and slid my arm on the back of the stool, suddenly grateful for Thomas’ suggestion to make the stools more comfortable in this room so the drinkers spent more time and money here.
“The question you should be asking is why doesn’t the government legalize and tax those businesses.”
She opened her mouth and let out a husky bark of laughter.
“Don’t say because the government cares about its citizens because it’s cliché and not true. The opioid problem indicates otherwise, yet you’re not banging down the door of Big Pharma.”
She laughed again. “You have answers for everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything,” I told her, my voice low and deep. “For example, I don’t know how much it’s gonna cost me to get rid of you.”
Her head fell forward and Addison laughed. “Even the Ashby family doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“Try me.”
People always used that line; thought it made them sound cool, but to me, it only said there was a number, and I just had to find it and talk them down just enough to make accepting the money palatable. It wasn’t so easy to say no when someone was offering to double or triple your salary for a lot less work.
Her smile faded. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Ashby.”
I laughed. “Are we back to Mr. Ashby, now?” I shrugged off her expression and moved forward because that’s how I got shit done. “If it makes you feel better, don’t think of it as being for sale.”
“Yeah? And how exactly should I think of it?”
“As getting what you’re owed for years of hard work, of the sexism you had to put up as a woman working for the FBI. Think of it as a bonus to help you pay off your student loans.” And there it was, that flash of recognition that meant she did have a number, and even better, she was thinking about my offer.
I smiled like the predator I was, smelling the blood in the water. “I can give you more money than you can make in a lifetime, and all you have to do is walk away. Leave me and my family alone. Leave my businesses alone. You’ll live a long healthy life, maybe fall in love with a guy who can’t give you an orgasm to save his life, push out a few ankle biters, all while working for the FBI, being the best little agent you can be.”
Her gaze slammed into mine, her lips pulled into a straight white line that slowly curled up into a smile. “Why do I have to marry a man who can’t give me an orgasm?”
Ah, the agent wanted to flirt, to play. I could indulge. Fucking her might be easier than paying her. “Because you, Agent Beck, are not a sexual being.”
“You don’t know that. You know nothing about me.” The pulse at the base of her neck kicked up and her pupils dilated.
“I know that a woman who hides those tits and a fit figure under those suits doesn’t want men looking at her and thinking, I’d like to put those sexy legs over my shoulders and make her scream my name.”
“Vulgar,” she replied, but she still smiled.
I leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “No, Addison, vulgar would be wondering out loud if your nipples were the color of strawberries or if they were darker, like raspberries. Vulgar would be wondering if you keep a little bush over your pussy or if you wax religiously. Vulgar would be wondering if your panties are stained with the cream of your arousal, if one thick finger could pull an orgasm from you in under a minute.”
She gasped, and when she turned, our faces were no more than a few inches apart.
“You think very highly of yourself.”
Her words came out breathy and more than a little husky. Yeah, she was turned the fuck on.
“I do, but I bet if I touched your pussy right now, if I slid my hand down your pants, I’d find your lips swollen and slick, and then I’d know.”
She blinked. “Know what?”
“That it was because of me. That your pussy creamed because of me.”
Addison gasped and licked her lips, leaning in closer and closer until her lips damn near touched mine. She froze, realizing a moment too late who she was and who I was before she sat back and finished off her beer.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Ashby.” She slid off the stool and pulled a few bills from her pocket.
I stood, towering over her with a smile and a shrug.
“Suit yourself, but Agent Beck?”
“What is it?”
“Challenge accepted.”
She let out a low growl and stomped off, and I laughed. She was a spitfire; I’d give her that much.
It was too bad I might have to kill her.
Chapter Eight
Mo
The Saturday night crowd at Midnight Mass was loud and rowdy, and it was all because of football, college football to be exact. Football lovers of every stripe showed up from bookies to degenerate gamblers, casual gamblers, college kids hailing from the hometown of one of the teams, girls who loved football fans, college football players, and even wannabe college football players. They’d all lined up to grace a booth or a table or a stool to set eyes on the Fightin’ Irish as they kicked ass, took names, and left no prisoners on the field.
