Page 25 of Dark & Deceitful

Romeo dries his hands on a kitchen towel and turns to face me. “How do you feel about filo?”

“For dessert?” I thread my fingers together on the counter and lean forward excitedly. Part an act. Part eager to hear more.

He grins, lopsided and almost shy. “Si.”

“Do I get a nibble?”

His surprised laughter booms through the galley. “Oh, yes. A nibble. A whole plate. Whatever you want,mi amor.” Romeo’s head tilts to the side fondly, assessing me as I grin at hisflirtation, not exactly welcoming it but not shutting it down either.

“I’ll eat anything you make,” I reply, leaving any hint of innuendo out of my words. Coming on too strong could backfire, but it doesn’t make it any less true. I will eat anything he makes.

“Strawberries?”

Biting my bottom lip, I nod once. “Yes.”

“With chocolate?”

My eyes widen, and my mouth waters. He chuckles deep and rumbly, knowing he’s got me hook, line, and sinker.

“I’ll see what I can find at the market.” Romeo winks, and I’m sold. For the next week, I’ll get fed by an incredible chef, and then the real fun begins. Finally. I can’t wait.

EIGHT

Climbing out of my third Uber of the day, I wave a friendly goodbye to my driver, then heave an irritated sigh as I shut the door and wait for the car to speed off. That’s when I return Dark’s texts, standing in the middle of a dusty, gravel parking lot as the overhead sun fills me with nature's vitamin D and makes it hard to read whatever mishmash of letters I pound in my haste to tell him to fuck right the hell off.

Thanks to the glare, it takes three tries to fix all the typos.

Me: I don’t know how many times I must repeat this. I bought the train ticket! I ordered the Uber using my work phone with my fake name! I entered the building with my bag and turned in my ticket for my phony trip. I changed my clothes in the bathroom, counted to a gazillion, left, and called another Uber using this phone five blocks away.

Him: It was supposed to be six. Six blocks, Kali. Not five.

Me: Maybe it was six.

It wasactuallyseven. Fuck him very much, but I’m not telling him that because his instructions are annoyingly detailed. I’m an adult, not a kindergartener. I covered my tracks. To avoid a fight, I did exactly what Dark ordered me to do. Now he’s getting on my last nerve for me doing just that. I can’t win.

Shoving my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I ignore the buzzing against my ass and enter the roadside restaurant out in the middle of no-fucking-where. From the outside, the western-styled bar and grill looks like a dilapidated shithole. The inside feels like home.

A portly, snaggle-toothed waitress carrying an armful of plastic menus lumbers to the front door to greet me. She’s downright adorable as she aggressively points to the rear of the bar and grins. “Girl, git your bony ass where it belongs.”

Throwing my head back, a laugh rips out of my throat. “It’s nice to see you, too, Marge.” I pat her shoulder as I do just that—get my bony ass where it belongs. Not that I think I have a bony behind. My ass is shapely. Maybe not bootylicious, but there’s a slope—a curve. Not all of us can be graced with two dump trucks attached to our rears like dear ole Marge.

Tucked in a back corner, two dark heads sit around a table. Giddiness ignites in my veins as I approach.

I tussle the one with the fullest head of hair.

“Hey, Mom,” he greets, looking up at me from his seat as his brother Tarek snickers and two-finger waves—his typical male greeting.

“Hey, back. Long time no see, stranger.” I smooch his upturned forehead. “Wasn’t sure if you were gonna show today.” Wanting to remain close to him, I pull out the well-worn chair next to my son and claim it for myself.

Marge rushes in before we get a chance to chat, drops plastic menus on the table in front of each of my boys, and arches a gray, brushy brow in my direction. “The uzhe?”

“Has the menu changed?” I tease, already knowing the answer.

She flips me off.

I smile like a movie star.

“The uzhe, it is,” she crows, then turns her attention to my sons when she says, “You two look just like your daddy and grandpa.” She whistles as if they’re the hottest men she’s ever laid eyes on. Around these parts, that’s partly true. This dot on a map is more than a bar and grill. It’s a safe space for bikers. The number of leather-clad, weapon-toting men that frequent this place is the only reason it’s stayed afloat all these years. They even have a backroom for meetings—or church, if you’re hip with the motorcycle club lingo.

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