I brush at it with my flannel sleeve. “It’s fine.” I study her eyes. “Saw you up at Martinelli’s earlier.”
She nods. “I saw you too.”
My jaw clenches. I want to bite back the words, but I can’t stop them. “You can’t possibly be interested in that loser?”
She pulls back like I’ve struck her. “And what exactly makes him a loser? The Mercedes he drives? The expensive home on the golf course? The platinum credit cards? Tell me, just so I get this straight.”
There’s my little spitfire. She’s got her back up and throwin’ sass. I huff out a laugh. “I see. Maybe you think he’s gonna solve all your problems, but I wouldn’t count on it, kitten. You can’t trust him as far as you can throw him. If you think you can, you’re a bad judge of character.”
“Character? Look who’s talking about character? He’s an upstanding citizen. What are you?”
Her barb hits home and I have to remind myself how young and naïve she is.
“What do you think would have happened tonight if I hadn’t been here, if he’d have broken into the bar while you were down there alone?”
She lifts her chin. “What’s your point? I should hide away and stop living? Are you trying to scare me into giving up?”
“I’m being realistic. You’ve got to be careful what enemies you make, and what friends you make. Could be snakes where you least expect ’em.”
“Thanks for what you did tonight, but I think it’s time you leave.”
I cup the back of her neck and pull her close. “Regardless of what you think, I’m just lookin’ out for you, Michaela.”
“I can’t pay my debt to the club if I’m dead, is that it?”
“This ain’t about the damn money,” I snap and take a breath. I let her go before I do something stupid like pull her in for a kiss. Right now, I want nothing more than to fuse that mouth of hers with mine, but I know better. This isn’t the time. I jerk my chin at her door. “Make sure you lock up. You got my number. Something happens and you need help, don’t hesitate to make that call.”
I turn and tromp down the stairs, my boots heavy on the steps. I walk around front to my bike, throw my leg over, and yank on my gloves. I throw on my helmet and tilt my head up to buckle the chin strap; when my eyes hit Michaela’s window, I see her standing there, watching me. I start the bike and pop up the kickstand. I already know it’s gonna take more than the two-mile ride to my house to cool the fuck down. I hit the throttle and roar down the street, wondering if she’s still at the window.
Twelve
Michaela—
The following Sunday, I drag a ladder through the front door and out to the street. Mooney’s is closed, and I’m taking the opportunity to make some repairs. I need to replace one of the bulbs in the gooseneck lamps out front, as well as put a new bolt in the sagging sign to replace the one that rusted through and broke off. Last thing I need is a lawsuit because the sign fell on a customer.
I lean the wooden ladder against the brick above the window and shake it. It seems secure, but I’ve never been crazy about heights. Maybe I should have asked Phil or Kevin to do the work, but that feels like a cop out. I need to be able to do these things myself.
It’s almost dinnertime, and there’s no business downtown this time on a Sunday, so I shouldn’t have to worry about foot traffic on the sidewalk. I’ve put this off and now I’m racing against losing daylight and cursing myself for not having gotten up and done it first thing this morning.
Wearing a sweat jacket against the evening chill, I shove the bolt in one pocket and the bulb in another, then jam the screwdriver in the back pocket of my jeans and start to climb the ladder. I make it up and am able to unscrew the light bulb, but I’m shaking as I try to tuck it in my pocket.
I hear the rumble of a motorcycle and it slips from my hand, crashing to the pavement below and shattering into a million pieces. I clutch the ladder, feeling dizzy.
The motorcycle slows and comes to a stop, and my gaze darts over my shoulder. Sly. Drat. Of course, it’s him, and now I’m frozen on this ladder, afraid to move.
A stiff breeze blows over me, and the ladder sways against the building. Oh shit.
I hear the bike shut off and then he’s standing next to the ladder.
“You okay, babe?”
“I’m fine.”
“Come on down, and let me do that.”
“No, I’ve got it.”
His boots crunch on the splintered glass, and I feel his hand on my leg. “Michaela, your hands are white from gripping that ladder. Now, come down.”
I look down, just a quick glance before I’m staring at the brick again. “I don’t think I can.”
“Sure you can, one foot at a time. I’ve got you.”
This is ridiculous. I suck in a breath, mortified he’s witnessing it. “Just go away. Please.”
“Not a chance. Now come on down.”
I step down one rung, clutching the ladder, then another until he suddenly scoops me up and sets me on the ground. I let out a yelp. “I had it. I was fine.”
Sly chuckles. “Babe, you so did not have it.”
“I would have had it.”
He holds his hand out. “Give me the bulb.”
I hand it over.
“What’s the screwdriver for? You didn’t think you needed that to change the bulb, did you?”
“No!” God, how stupid does he think I am? “There’s a bolt on the sign that rusted out.”
“Give it to me.”
This time, I don’t even argue. What’s the point? I just pass him the bolt and screwdriver.
He scurries up the ladder like he’s a fucking pro. In a matter of minutes, he’s completed both jobs and climbs down. “You got a broom?”
I nod.
Sly walks inside behind me with the ladder, knowing exactly where the storage room is, then sets it against the wall as I grab the broom. He follows me back out and watches as I sweep the glass into the sewer drain.
When the last of it is gone, I turn to him. “Thank you for helping me.”
He grins. “You looked a little terrified up there. You afraid of heights?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
He nods to the bar. “How ’bout you repay me with a beer?”
“The bar’s closed. We don’t have a Sunday liquor license.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re a real rule-follower, aren’t you?”
“Yep. I bet you’ve never followed one in your life.”
He grins again. “Depends on the rule.” He looks at the apartment above. “How about you offer me a beer upstairs? Can’t get in trouble for that, can you?”
“Oh, I think taking you upstairs could be all kinds of trouble.”
“I’ll behave. Scout’s honor.”
“You, a boy scout?” I laugh.
“I was, actually. Made it all the way through Cub Scouts to the Webelos in fourth grade.”
“Webelos?” I arch a brow, trying to picture him as a fourth grader.
“Yep, it’s actually an acronym for We’ll Be Loyal Scouts.”