Page 36 of Root

I know they’re trying to find allies. The little pockets that always thrive in dark corners, like vermin. Or roaches.

But Nikolai Wilder, dangerous as he is, seems like he’s got sanity on his side. Gangs like the Ten64 thrive on chaos and insane moves because it feels good.

I don’t want to be on the wrong side of anyone.

Problem is, I’m not the only one who could get hurt.

I think. Very carefully.

“Ed used to own it. But, according to rumor, he lost it in a card game in Santa Fe, of all places.” Where the Ten64 came up from. “I don’t interact with the owners. Most of my money’s cash in hand, tips. Chad, I think, is the one who comes in to do payments and the like.”

I can’t say I don’t know at all. There’s a difference between not knowing someone and not knowing who they are.

I just hope I haven’t fucked up.

Chad’s the one who signs the checks. Chad’s a member of the gang. Beyond that… I keep my thoughts dampened down.

“But I don’t know much about him. I do my shifts and go home.”

Nikolai leans back, almost casual. Except he’s taking up too much space and his expression’s anything but casual. Combine that with Rush’s silence and…yeah…he’s full on predator, one who knows he doesn’t need to bare his claws or teeth.

“Maybe, when you go back, you know, when they start asking fucking questions about where the hell you are, you can dig into things. For me. How about that?”

I swallow, my skin cold, itching. And I want to scream. I look at him. “I’m not a spy.”

“Aren’t you?”

Ignoring the other meaning to that, I say, “I keep myself to myself, head down.”

“Except when you jump into the fray and fucking fight on behalf of Rush, who knows how to fucking fight.”

“It wasn’t a fair fight.”

“And you thought you could save him?”

This time I stalk up to the table. I’m shaking. And it’s stupid, the muttering from Rush also tells me it’s stupid. The only one who isn’t radiating I’m stupid is Nikolai. He’s radiating cold dispassion.

“I didn’t think. I can fight, I grew up having to look out for myself. And it was a bunch of big guys with weapons who jumped Rush. These guys don’t play fair.”

“Neither do I,” Rush mutters. “But it was an ambush, Niko-olai.”

He moves in to stand near me and I wish he wouldn’t because he radiates warmth, a strange calming presence that curls into the corners of me, and my tiny amount of control slips. He smells too good. Tastes better.

And with Rush so close that taste comes back, the dark velvet of trysts and laughter. That hot, sexy laughter that comes when lovers connect and have their own, secret language; of touch and the cool drift of sun-kissed pools of water. He’s light and dark. His dark isn’t dipped in the hell of Nikolai Wilder. It’s a wicked darkness, something that compels, and with him there, right there, I’m filled to the brim with him.

I want more.

That’s what his closeness brings about, me wanting more.

Rush also smells divine. Rich and luxurious, a breath of summer in the Mediterranean, heady nights with sparks of honeyed immortelle, the delightful bite of spice and black pepper, and bergamot.

He’s champagne on a yacht, stolen kisses in a garden at night.

The man distracts saints and I’m no saint. I need to keep my head and I know if I step away it’ll be cataloged by the predator he’s related to. Cataloged and turned into a weapon.

I’ve had enough of weaponized situations to last a lifetime.

Gang life’s chaotic by nature, the order pecked out and shuffled by death, violence, bloodshed. Whether the gang roams the streets in cars or on foot, or if they’re one who like the wild freedom of the road on the back of a motorcycle, that chaos can be—if a girl’s smart—manipulated.

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