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“What’s good, man?” the guy says, eyeing me, his grin growing wider. “What do you got here? New girl?”
Dominic’s reply is ice. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
I hear the unmistakable cock of a gun next to me. My eyes go wide when I see the Glock in Dominic’s grip before he lays it across his lap. I have no idea where it came from.
“I told you I don’t like company, RB.”
The guy looks over his shoulder to see another man approaching and turns to him. “Step back, right now, motherfucker, I told you I have this.” The guy eyes Dominic carefully and steps back onto the curb.
“Sorry, man, he’s a young buck, my little nephew. I told his stupid ass to stay put.” He reaches into his pocket and Dominic’s venom stops him.
“The fuck you doing?”
“Sorry, man, just wanted to get straight.”
“Then I guess you need to see Friar. I’m not driving back through here again. We clear?”
RB holds up his hands. “Been meaning to. I swear,” he nods over his shoulder. “Car is fucked again. See?”
Dominic eyes the Chevy on cinderblocks in the driveway behind him.
“Get it to the shop. We’ll work it out.”
“Thanks, man. I wanted to ask—”
Dominic jerks his chin and the guy takes a step back from the car before he pulls away.
“So, you are a drug dealer. Jesus, I should have known.” I don’t know why, but I’m disappointed. I thought better of him and maybe I shouldn’t have. But why the hell would a graduate of a prestigious school resort to something so fucking dangerous and juvenile? It’s equivalent to a dumb as hell NFL millionaire playing thug games and losing his life in search of street credit. And I waste no time voicing as much. “You know you have a golden ticket out of here. Jesus, Dominic, I thought you were better than this petty shit.”
He slows at the stop sign, and everyone within feet of the car takes a step away, keeping their eyes down. Dominic leans over, his eyes on mine and his breath hits my skin, as his finger brushes my leg before he opens the glove box. My neck prickles as silver eyes infiltrate mine and my chest starts to rise and fall quicker. His gaze drops to my lips, and the air crackles thick as I run my tongue along my bottom lip. Adrenaline spikes in my blood when he lingers for long seconds before he smirks and pulls back, tossing a piece of paper in my lap. I pick it up and read. It’s a concealed gun permit for one Jean Dominic King.
“Jean, huh? Doesn’t get much more French than that.”
He rips the permit from my hand and locks both the glove box with the gun and permit tucked safely behind it.
“So you have a permit, whatever. Doesn’t change the fact that I want no part of your shady shit.”
He takes a left, and then another, getting us out of the questionable neighborhood. “Did you see an exchange of money?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Did I point my fucking gun at anyone?”
“No.”
He tilts his head in my direction, brow arched. “Was a crime of any kind committed?”
“No.”
“Then the only shady one in this car is you.”
“How so?”
“Because it’s your fucking brain working overtime, making assumptions you have no grounds to make.”
