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“Mm,” was all he said.
“Is this going to be dangerous?” I asked, tucking my .38 into the back waistband of my jeans.
“No. Not the way you’re thinking.”
“What way am I thinking?”
“Look… just remember one thing when we go in there: I’m a different person from who I was four years ago. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said with a frown.
“Alright, then, let’s get this over with,” he muttered as he walked over to the motel room and knocked.
“That you, Jack?” drawled a woman’s voice, sexy and Southern.
“Yeah. By the way, I got somebody with me.”
“Somebody nice?”
“Nice enough.”
“Well come on in,” the woman said. “But do it real slow, since you’re gonna have a couple shotguns on you.”
61
The first two things that come to mind when describing Sloane are ‘big hair’ and ‘huge fake boobs.’
‘Brassy’ would probably be a third.
She was an incredibly beautiful woman, in a trashy kind of way. Her grey eyes were mesmerizing – those witchy irises where they’re lighter near the pupil, edging darker and darker towards the whites. Plenty of smoky eyeshadow. She had high cheekbones and sensual lips painted Fuck me red. Her hair was two-toned – auburn in the back with blonde bangs in the front. Full sleeves of tats with bright, flashy colors. They were easy to see, thanks to her sleeveless, metal-studded leather jacket and a wifebeater that barely contained the cantaloupe-sized mounds on her chest. She also wore black leather pants, black leather stiletto boots buckled up to her knees, and a shit-ton of gaudy chrome rings and necklaces. Her long nails were blood red with a single rhinestone embedded in the each tip.
It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. She looked like a young Angie Everhart – although she talked more like Mae West by way of an Alabama trailer park.
I hate to admit it, but I was a little jealous – and I didn’t know why. I basically hated Jack now, so why the fuck did I care what his ex looked like?
Didn’t matter – I still felt insecurity gnawing at my guts. To make myself feel better, I focused on the cheaper, floozier-looking aspects of her appearance. Like the hair. And the tats. And the nails. And the overdone makeup. And the gigantic fake boobs.
Hell, pretty much all of it.
She was sitting in a plaid recliner at the other end of the motel room like a queen on her throne. And like any queen, she had two knights flanking her, one on either side – except these dudes looked like refugees from a ZZ Top cover band. And they were pointing sawed-off shotguns right at us.
Jack didn’t seem fazed at all. “Sloane.”
“Hello, loverboy,” she said mockingly – but also with a flirtatious wink.
That ‘loverboy’ part really pissed me off.
And the wink.
Actually, everything about her infuriated me.
Was I that jealous over a man I hated now?
Apparently.
FUCK.
“You got some work done,” Jack remarked.
