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After climbing out, he touched a hand to his side and the weapon he concealed in the waist of his jeans. He didn’t expect blackwillow73 to attend this meeting, yet he wasn’t going to take any risks that the kid didn’t have a few friends here.
He closed the truck door and turned—then stopped dead.
Lark and Quaide blocked his path.
He cut a hand through the air. “What the hell is this?” he demanded.
Lark rolled her eyes and said to Quaide, “Told ya he’d be ticked off to find us here.”
Minutes before, Clay thought it impossible to even be short with the woman who was slowly infiltrating his heart, but the fact that she was here told him she planned to interfere in another one of his plans. And that wasn’t going to happen.
Stepping up to her, he hoped his glare was enough to send her running back to Quaide’s vehicle.
“Why are you two here?”
Lark didn’t respond, so he swung to his friend. “Quaide, you better start talking.”
The meeting was about to begin. A man of Clay’s size always drew attention, and that was the last thing he needed when he walked into that meeting late.
Lark suddenly grabbed his arm, staring down at the tattoos that now covered the entirety of it. Her gaze flicked up to his, a question in her eyes.
“They’re fake,” he ground out. He was used to fitting roles, acting the part and fitting in, so he’d left his boots and hat back at Quaide’s and wore khaki pants similar to what blackwillow73 had been wearing when they met at the office the night Clay apprehended him. A white T-shirt, sneakers and a ballcap did a lot to transform him from the guy who’d spent the last year as a bodyguard on the WEST Protection team into an addict trying to heal.
Lark turned his arm over to study the sleeve of tattoos he’d applied that morning. “These lookso real. I’ve never seen anything so real.”
“You’d be surprised what the FBI provides in the way of disguises.”
Quaide nodded in agreement, but Lark didn’t see. She tilted her face up to Clay and peered under the brim of his hat to meet his eyes.
“It’s a great look on you…but I look more the part of a recovering addict.”
At her declaration, his eyes flew wide. “What?”
“Look at me.” She waved a hand over herself, to the rumpled shirt he’d stepped over that morning on the way to the bathroom and a pair of loose-fitting shorts that hung off her hips. “My hair’s a mess. I haven’t showered. My eye makeup is smudged, and I hardly slept because—”
They both shot glances at Quaide, who ducked his head to avoid their stares. Of course he overheard the noises coming from their room the night before. Neither of them were very quiet about it, either.
“Well, never mind,” Lark said quickly. “I’m going into that meeting, and you”—she poked his chest—“are staying here.”
He glared down at her. “No way.”
“Clay. No offense, but you stand out in a crowd. Even in khakis and sporting tattoos, you’re still Clay Lexis around here.”
“This is your hometown too.” His voice grated.
“Few people know me around here anymore, and they’ll all believe I’m a crack whore. After all, I look like one. The only thing I need’s a rock.”
“Oh. My. God. Well, you’re not getting one. This is a terrible idea!”
Lark trained her stare on his friend. “Quaide.”
As if they’d agreed upon something before this, Quaide darted to Clay and gripped him by the shoulder. With a satisfied smirk, Lark whirled and booked it to the front of the church.
Clay strained against his friend’s hold. “You better let me go before I flatten your fucking ass.”
“You can try it, Lexis, but then we’ll only be down a man when I put you in the hospital.”
“As if you could!” he gritted, baring his teeth at the man he now was questioning why he ever considered to be a friend. He didn’t remove his stare from Lark as she climbed a few steps and vanished inside the church.
