Her thumb strokes back and forth, and even though it’s over my shirt, I swear her touch sears my skin through the fabric.
“You never mentioned what kind of job you have.” Her eyes briefly lift to collide with mine before dropping to focus on her thumb’s movement. “I assume it pays pretty well considering how you’re dressed.”
“Mmm, maybe I’m secretly trainin’ to be the next Man in Black.” The teasing remark falls from my mouth before I realize it.
She doesn’t look at me but seems intent on studying my shirt. A smirk toys at her lips. “Try again.”
The easiness to our conversation, the banter—I know it’ll all disappear once I tell her what I really do for a living. I never cared before. I’ve always had the accept me for who I am or fuck off mindset. Because I’m not ashamed of what I do. It’s a job I take pride in.
Every single year of my life that I’ve dedicated to helping Bronson build The Scorpions into what they are today—all the blood and sweat and tears we’ve shed—has been an honor.
I drag in a deep breath, wondering why the hell I’m stalling—why the hell I even care about a complete stranger’s reaction. “I’m second-in-command of The Scorpions.”
Her head snaps up, and her body goes stiff in my arms. There’s practically a neon sign above her head that tells me her fight-or-flight instincts have kicked in. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. “You’re in a gang?”
I’m used to this reaction from people, especially from anyone who knows about The Scorpions. We’ve gained a reputation for being the biggest and baddest gang around—and with good reason. Nobody smart tries to fuck with us, because they know what’ll happen.
A bullet right between the eyes.
We’re known to be murderers and drug pushers. While the former might be true, the latter isn’t necessarily accurate.
My spine turns to steel because, yeah, I’m defensive about my job and the men who are like brothers to me. We’ve worked our asses off to create the biggest and best weed production in the area, right alongside our quality moonshine, and selling the best weapons out there.
We don’t push anything—don’t have to. People come to us because they know our products are the best around.
But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Because early on, when Bronson shared his vision of what The Scorpions could be and what we could achieve, I knew it would last. That’s why I didn’t hesitate in stepping up to the plate alongside him.
I knew it wouldn’t be a petty little gang going around spray-painting their name and logo here and there. It would be us making our mark on the place, helping our community and the people we cared about most.
I finally answer her with a single, simple word. “Yeah.”
Fear flashes over her pretty face, and the pulse at the base of her throat flickers wildly. She drops her hands, eliminating contact, and her fingers and thumb of her right hand twitch oddly at her side. “So, you murder people?”
I hear what she’s not saying. Are you planning to murder me? Which is why I speak the truth. “We don’t hurt women.”
Her hollow laugh greets my response. “Not exactly the most promising endorsement.”
I catch her wrist in my grip, holding her gaze with mine, and slowly bring her fingers to the medal around my neck.
“I wasn’t lyin’ earlier when I said you’d be safe with me. I swear it, Mac. I swear it on the soul of the woman who gave me this years ago. She’s the closest thing I have to a mother.”
Her gaze searches mine for any indication I’m lying. She won’t find it, though. Not a damn trace. When I sense her hesitation, I add, “I’m not here as part of The Scorpions. I’m here because of my sister. Just lookin’ for answers to find who did it.”
After a long beat, she shakes her head slowly, never breaking eye contact. “I’m probably stupid, but I believe you.” Her chest rises with a breath before falling with her exhale, and her gaze snags on my medal a second before darting back up.
A trace of vulnerability creeps into her features, belied by the index finger she pokes at the center of my chest, punctuating her words. I’m oddly relieved that her twitching fingers have stopped. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
“Likewise.”
A derisive snort escapes her before she studies me intently, her expression stamped with indecision. “Since you didn’t find anything out, you’ll probably head out in the morning, huh?”
An invisible fist punches me in the gut, signaling my failure at not uncovering anything here. “Probably.”
There’s got to be another place by the name of Freebird I didn’t dig up, along with the actual Mac my sister referred to. But damn if I’m not reluctant to say goodbye to this one.
It’s not the time or place to be thinking about anything other than finding my sister’s killer. But this woman…she’s something else. I wish like hell we’d crossed paths under different circumstances.
Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, and my eyes track the movement. Goddamn if my dick doesn’t jolt to life. It takes all my willpower to calm him down.
“You need something to take your mind off your disappointment of not getting any answers.”
I narrow my eyes. “That so?”
“The best way to do that is with snacks.”
The sound of a record needle scratching against vinyl screeches in my head. Snacks?
She steps back. “I gotta pay my tab.” Spinning around, she tosses over her shoulder, “Meet you out front.”
Yeah. I’m still standing on the dance floor like a fucking dumbass. Because I’m pretty sure snacks isn’t code for sex.
I scrape a hand down my face with an inward laugh. Who knew the wrong Mac would end up being exactly what I didn’t know I needed tonight?
19
MAC
What am I doing? I have officially lost my fucking mind.
And then some.
“‘The best way to do that is with snacks’?” I mutter disgustedly under my breath as I stride toward the bar to pay my tab. “What in the fresh hell am I doing?!”
“You’re thinkin’ of gettin’ laid,” Timmy calls out as he passes by on his way to—you guessed it—the bathroom yet again.
He doesn’t stop but continues on his way without a backward glance, which I’m extremely grateful for.
I just got called out by the town’s functional drunk. That’s right. I’ve officially sunk to an all-new low.
Daniel’s frustration was palpable when he spoke of his sister and how he’s searching for answers. Sure, people can fake shit, but he wasn’t. I know that as sure as I know Timmy will make another dozen trips to the bathroom before he leaves tonight.
I’ve sat at this bar countless times and overheard men—both locals and the occasional out-of-towners—tell some tale about how they caught whatever-size fish, shot whatever-size deer while hunting, or fucked whatever kind of woman. Each and every time, I’ve been able to identify the lies from the truth.
It’s not that their tales were wholly unbelievable, because that hasn’t always been the case. I can’t quite explain it, but it’s as though I somehow have the ability to detect the untruths. Whether it’s instinctive or related to my ability, I don’t know for sure, but what I do know is, a lie always stands out to me.