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Maker thought about that. “Met Smokey here last week but couldn’t stay. You know the story of why. Other than that, haven’t even been by the place.”
Gate nodded toward Lizzie, “She see that?”
“See what?” Maker asked.
“That double handful of blonde.”
“Smokey? She’s my sister, Gate.”
“I know that. But does pretty brown eyes know that?”
Maker crossed thick arms over his chest.
Gate stood and dropped bills on the table. “Thought so. Be in touch,” he said, making for the front door.
*************************
Maker
Maker watched Gate cross the front parking lot, straddle his Harley, and take off back down I-95 to Savannah.
Then he followed suit, boots pounding the linoleum as he crossed the diner.
He stopped in front of Lizzie.
She put down the saltshaker she held and looked up. And then up some more.
The scent of strawberries and vanilla curled around Maker, and he breathed deep.
Lizzie’s eyes went wide.
“Not sure what you saw,” Maker’s voice was gravel, “but it’s not what you think.”
“It’s not?” Lizzie whispered.
And Maker loved that she just put that out there. Didn’t try to play coy. Didn’t try to scheme. Just owned that she’d seen something that put her off.
“No, it’s not,” Maker said. “She’s my sister.”
“Ohhhhh,” Lizzie breathed.
And Maker liked the way her chocolate brown eyes melted when she believed him.
Maker cuffed the back of Lizzie’s neck with his paw of a hand and leaned down, touching his lips to hers.
Desire snaked through his veins and flooded straight to his cock.
“Be back,” he said, turning for the door.
And next time, he’d make sure he kept his promise.
*************************
Tex
The hospital corridor was long and white and smelled of Lysol and bleach.
Tex imagined the front entrance was a bit more welcoming, but when you showed up in ripped jeans and a leather cut, people got twitchy, so Tex had opted for the back entrance, the one that passed by the morgue. Less judgment, more quiet.
