“Nah, my bet’s that he’s a Fed.”
For fuck’s sake. “Thanks for your help, gentlemen.”
Of course, my sarcasm is lost on them.
“Sure thing. Just don’t go flashin’ your badge around here.” Randy’s asshole friend cackles as I walk away. “Might make some of ’em mighty nervous.”
“If he’s undercover, he prolly don’t got a badge,” Randy offers. “Still say he’s gotta be with a cartel.”
I grit my teeth yet again, and at this rate, I won’t have molars left once I escape this goddamn place.
Venturing toward the bar, I continue surveying my surroundings casually. I never let my guard down—can’t afford to—especially when it’s in unfamiliar territory like this.
I draw to a stop by the stool to the woman’s right. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Suit yourself.” She doesn’t turn my way, giving me her profile. Damn if she isn’t every bit of gorgeous up close as she is from a distance.
I slide onto the barstool and prop my forearm on the bar top. Big mistake.
“Yeah…” Her voice holds a trace of amusement. “Benny’s not exactly the best at cleaning up around here.”
I internally cuss at myself for rolling up my sleeves like I did. Because she’s not kidding. My skin pulls as I lift my arm from the sticky wooden surface.
Jesus. This place is nasty as fuck.
“But he’s the friendliest damn bartender around,” she tacks on as the brawny older man refills her glass. He doesn’t even acknowledge her compliment, his permafrown adding further contradiction to her claim.
Accepting the refill with a quick thanks, she lifts the glass in mock salute at the bartender. “Seems you missed a spot in your spring cleaning, Benny.”
“Ain’t done any spring cleanin’ since my old lady ran off.” Benny settles his dark scowl on me. It only accentuates the countless wrinkles in his leathery skin.
I match his hard gaze with a steady one of my own. I really don’t feel like engaging in a goddamn pissing contest, but fuck. Sometimes, that’s what it takes. “Can I get a scotch on the rocks?”
His features harden. “I don’t serve people pushin’ drugs.”
I briefly pinch the bridge of my nose. Christ. “I’m not a damn drug dealer.”
His mouth twists derisively. “Yeah. Sure, you’re not.” Pinning me with an icy glare, he lifts his chin, gesturing to my clothing. “Just look at how you’re dressed.” With that said, he saunters off, but not before tossing me a warning glance over his shoulder.
I clear my throat, hoping like hell this woman will not only have a lead for me but be different from these other damn dipshits. “The guys over there said you might be able to help me. I’m tryin’ to find a guy named Mac.”
“Why’re you looking for him?” She still doesn’t turn my way, and it’s aggravating not being able to look her in the eyes.
“It’s personal.”
“How personal?” She takes another sip. “Because I’m not really in the mood to help some dude who looks like he’s auditioning to be either a cat burglar, the Man in Black, or to be a part of El Chapo’s crew.”
I glance down at my black button-down and matching dress pants whose hem meets my black boots before leveling her with a sharp look. “Already said I’m not part of a drug cartel, I don’t think my boots would do a good job of wooin’ Princess Buttercup, and I’m not jonesin’ to go on a B an’ E binge.”
A short burst of her husky laugh follows. It’s a bit rusty sounding, like she doesn’t do much laughing. “And here I didn’t think you’d get that reference to The Princess Bride movie.”
“And here I thought you’d be just a pretty face and not funny, too.”
Her hair moves in a silky curtain when she gives a little shake of her head. “Boy, are you in for a surprise.”
I wonder what the hell she means by that and watch her curiously as she lifts her glass to her lips.
Studying her profile, my gaze drops to the way she runs her tongue along her bottom lip once she lowers her glass. My mind goes off on a tangent, thinking about what else that tongue could do, and my cock starts to harden.
Fuck. I shift on my stool, silently cussing at myself. Not the time to be leadin’ with my dick.
“Nobody else is searching for Mac?”
I blink, refocusing my attention on her question. “Not that I know of.” A thought dawns on me. “Is he in some sort of trouble with the cops or somethin’?”
“Definitely not.” She peers into her glass that’s nearly empty. “Are you looking for Mac because you need car parts?”
“What?” I frown in confusion. “No.”
Her back stiffens, and she presses her lips together firmly. “Listen, dude—”
“Daniel.”
She continues like she didn’t even hear me. “—you’re gonna need to disclose something more about your reason for wanting to see Mac.”
I study her intently, wishing like hell I could get a read on her. She’s got a cagey vibe about her, but I can’t pinpoint anything exact. One thing’s for sure: she’s not planning to budge on this unless I give her something to go on.
Swiveling on the stool to face her fully, I glance around to ensure no one’s within earshot before lowering my voice. “I wanna know if he has any info about my sister before she died.”
She whips her head around to stare at me, her hair tousled in the process, and surprise is etched on her—
Holy fuck. My eyes sweep over the entire left side of her face that’s now visible. Untouched, perfect skin extends from her nose to part of her cheek and down to a small section of her jaw which collides with a blurred border of severely scarred, puckered flesh. The distinctiveness of perfection and imperfection has me riveted in place.
This marred area starts at her temple trailing down over the rest of her cheek that borders her hairline, descending to her jawline where it disappears into her upper neck where colorful ink begins.
An hourglass and other unique images of clock faces are etched on her skin, the detailing precise and impeccable, disappearing beneath the collar of her T-shirt.
She raises the arm she’d had resting below the bar on her lap to resettle the backward ball cap that shifted a fraction from her movement. That’s when I’m granted a view of more inked designs encircling her entire left arm that start from somewhere beneath her short-sleeved shirt and continue to her wrist.
I’ve been around enough tattoos to recognize when one’s a coverup for scars. A lot of our men have done this, so my gaze carefully tracks the length of her arm. Whoever her tattoo artist was, they did a damn good job.
I don’t know what the hell happened to her, but just knowing this woman suffered so much pain has my chest pinching painfully. To have that much scarring and to that extent…Christ. That must’ve hurt like a motherfucker.
I’m struck by how those scars that cut a path along the side of her face are so incongruous with the rest of her features. Now that she faces me, giving me a full unencumbered view, I don’t get what the hell those dipshits were talking about earlier.