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“Use me now.” I appreciate a woman who understands a mutually beneficial transaction.
“Second, would it hurt to have a conversation with a sistah? Third . . .” She goes stock-still, staring straight forward.
A blue and purple highway bridge banner hangs from an overpass, reading, “This isn’t the end of your story.” Beneath it is the 1-800- suicide prevention number. This gloomy area is where lots of young lads and lasses go to die. There are a couple of them around the nation. Pasadena has its own suicide bridge too.
I look over. I’ve to stop myself from wincing at the sight of her shiny brown eyes. “Ye’re pining over the deid fec—lad?”
Her voice breaks. “Yeah.”
Long stretches of land are in front and behind us. I’d internally criticized Chevelle for the back pat earlier. Now, I’m a bawbag as Justice silently bawls her eyes out.
After a lengthy silence, I clear my throat. “Cooking. Hunting. Killing. Fecking. I know ye don’t wanna hear the sex part, but it’s my specialty.”
Her shoulders start to shudder. A tightness I’ve never experienced before stretches across my chest. She’ll cry louder now—louder, harder—because she’d a good guy, and he’s dead. The good ones never survive. Instead, there’s laughter.
I’ve never been so uncertain in my life. I glance over. My mouth twitches at the edges. I believe in demons and ghosts, but when I look at her, I’m envisioning something new. I’m seeing the lass for the very first time, looking deep into her.
Justice places a hand over her smile. It takes the strength of ten men for me not to reach over and move her hand for another view.
“You had to slide sex in there. I’m not mad at you, though. The confidence factor was immaculate. I’ll even disregard the killing part and slot that into hunting.”
Overwhelmed by the desire to hear Justice laugh again, I don’t catch her entire statement. I mutter, “Hunting?”
“Ducks, quail?” She lifts a brow. “I’ve had some amazing deer sausages. What do you hunt?”
How did I make her laugh? I have to do it again.
“Brody?” She waves a hand. My name exiting those lips sends my cock to a tall, proud salute. “You didn’t seize the moment when I mentioned sausages.”
Shite. She’s right.
“So, you don’t hunt ducks?” Justice clears her throat. “What can you cook?”
I hunt beautiful women and any nugget my clan requests me to. I cook . . . “Everything.”
Justice chuckles. “And he’s back. The man who’s sure about himself.”
Aye! I made her laugh again. “I’m sure about us too.”
She laughs again, relaxing in my company. “Um, hmmm, why are you really helping me, Brody?”
Ain’t got an answer. I live my life sure of everything. If ya cross me, ye’re dead. The better-you-than-me mentality never failed me. I don’t even like a challenging lass. Give me an easy one any day. Long as she’s pretty and I’m wearing a condom, that’s a match made in bloody heaven. I give the ladies what they crave and let them skedaddle off. But Justice is the contradiction to every female I’ve ever encountered. I’m not gonna lie and say it’s her need to be saved that’s got me here. I’ve met some down on their luck women before. Did I care after I nutted?
Hell nae.
That leaves us at a standstill, me and this paradox with mocha eyes of the highest fecking clarity and a real good hunk of meat on her bones. I guess the difference between her, and any other woman, is . . . I’ve yet to feck her.
