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Chapter 13
“What is this place?”
I glance down at my wife, a twinge of nausea tickling my esophagus—be it age or upbringing, the fact that we’re standing just inside a dive bar and she has no idea what it is unsettles me.
Age has never been an issue concerning her—in truth, I only met her in person a couple of times when she was a child, and it was long after she turned eighteen that I allowed myself to see her in any other light than as a Ricci daughter.
She just has an air about her that takes age out of the equation.
Except now.
Part of me should feel bad that I’m ruining the girl’s life before she’s even had a chance to experience it, but the other, darker part of me recalls how mine was stripped away by her parents, and that erases the guilt.
I was far younger than she.
“A bar,” I answer, gesturing at the stretch of counter to our left. One of Jonas’s men, Vincent, sits on a stool behind it, picking his teeth with a plastic fork.
She makes a face at him, then glances around. “How did I get in? I’m not twenty-one yet.”
“You’re with me, and the same rules that apply for the general public haven’t applied to me in years.”
Placing my hand on her lower back, I try not to admire the soft cotton feel of the little red sundress she has on. The neckline plunges between her cleavage, knotting below her breasts, and I want more than anything to untie it and feast on her right here, right now.
In the days since the flash drive showed up on my porch, we’ve settled into a sort of routine; I’ve been working overtime trying to find the culprit—to no fucking avail—and she spends hers ordering shit with my credit card and trying to figure out how to use it.
The first day, it was fishing. She ordered a neon pink pole and matching tackle box, and was up and out of bed at four in the morning, prepared to put her research to the test.
She was back inside within an hour, huffing about how no one told her fishing was so boring.
Another day was stargazing, though she passed out before the best constellations appeared.
I only know because I haven’t slept since her arrival, sitting in the living room armchair each night with a bottle of scotch, trying to get up the nerve to join her in bed.
But there’s a reason she hasn’t seen me naked yet; same as why I can’t let myself be that vulnerable next to her. The cartography of my body, though lean and sculpted through years of rigorous exercise, is marred with many blemishes.
Evidence of my evil deeds tattooed permanently into my skin.
All of that has nothing to do with why I haven’t fucked her yet, though. There really isn’t a concrete reason behind that fact, just the reality.
When I fuck her, I want to do it right, and I don’t want to risk losing a hard-on because I’m too busy thinking about the people coming after us, or how my plan is unraveling before I’ve even executed it.
Hence, our arrival at the Flaming Chariot. With its rickety wooden floors and the boards nailed into the windows, blocking all sunlight, I’m surprised my little wife doesn’t turn and make a run for it.
This certainly isn’t a place she’d frequent of her own volition.
And yet, the second my hand touches her, she almost melts into the motion, allowing me to guide her across the room. My shoulders tense as we walk, irritation bleeding down my spine as heads turn and eyes rake over her curves, as if on display for them.
They must not recognize me in this light.
We settle into a booth at the back—the same one Knees Morelli sat in two weeks ago. Gwen, a waitress with spiky blonde hair and a nose piercing, comes over to take our order, and Elena tentatively plucks a paper menu from the napkin dispenser, pursing her lips as she scans it.
“I don’t eat a lot of seafood,” Elena says, turning the menu over in her hands. She glances up at Gwen. “What would you recommend?”
“Nothing solid,” Gwen drones, tapping her pen on the end of her notepad.
“Gwen,” I mutter, resting my arm along the back of the booth where Elena sits. “Customer service manners, remember?”
She rolls her eyes, shifting her weight to the other foot. “I’m trying to save her from definite food poisoning. Vincent’s manning the kitchen today, and Jonas won’t even eat his cooking.” Glancing at Elena, she widens her brown eyes. “Jonas eats anything. Just not if Vincent’s touched it.”
