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He laughed at her, shaking his head. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
She shook her head, shutting the journal and pulling herself out of her chair. "No, probably not. You'll always be known to me as the weird man who broke into my home bare butted."
She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Time to make lunch. She had enough food to make sandwiches for them.
Strap chuckled. "Well, I guess I'll just have to live with that since we are going to be together for the rest of our lives."
She froze, staring at him. He said it with such confidence. He really, truly wanted to be with her, and that made her heart flutter.
She grabbed the milk looking away. "Well, I guess you have the rest of our lives to prove me wrong." She waited for him to react.
He didn't. He simply smiled at her looking at the journal. She bit her lower lip. He wanted her, and that in itself meant so much.
They ate lunch, taking a break from the journals. Strap told her about his heists and all the thrills he had. He told her about his trips and his visits to new places. She asked questions about what it was like to be a shifter, especially to be so rare, even among his kind.
She told him about her mother, and while they didn't have much money, they always found fun activities to do. She fished, she hunted. She knew all the flower names by heart.
The more they spoke, the closer she felt to him. And the more she wanted to lead him away from the life of crime. And into her life. But would he? She couldn’t love a criminal.
They huddled down once more, going through journals. They had made it through half of them when her eyes paused on a statement. She'd read it at least three times, still learning how to decipher her father's hand.
She threw herself up, jumping and smiling with happiness. "This is it. It says, went to Biagini Park to drop off six eggs. Quick game and left."
Strap hooked his arm around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. He leaned over her shoulder, looking at the journal.
"This has to be it, right? It makes sense. It's code for baseballs. They went to a baseball field which is what the park means. I figured it out."
Strap stiffened behind her, and his body tensed. She looked at him, seeing his expression morph into worry and anger.
"What?" she asked.
Before she could say anything, Strap pushed her off his lap, taking the journal from her hands. He took a few steps away and scowled angrily at the journal.
She pulled herself up, growling at him. "What the hell, Strap? What is wrong?"
He paced, rereading the words over and over a few times. He then turned to her. "You can't be part of this."
"Excuse me?" she yelled, gripping her hands into fists.
"Don't argue with me on this."
"Fuck you!" she snipped, reaching for the book. Strap stepped back, and she charged. She slammed them onto the couch, and he waved the journal high.
"Mickey, stop."
"Give me the journal, you half-witted sex offender."
Her words angered him more. "I'm trying to protect you, Mickey. The baseballs were sold to an Italian mafia leader who lives in Valencia. His name is Colmazio Biagini. He isn't someone you want to fuck with."
"I don't care," she growled.
His voice dipped. "Mickey, he is known for killing and disemboweling people."
"I'm about to disembowel you if you don't give me the fucking journal back. You can't do this without me or that journal."
She watched as he threw the journal over the couch, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't need the journal anymore anyway."
She shoved him hard into the couch. "You're not going without me," she snarled.
