Page 8 of Graveyard Dog

She bit her lip, and he saw the tension his question had caused when the muscles in her jaw hardened.

“Would he try to take her from you?”

“No.” The smile that slid across her face held more sadness than a deflated balloon. “He would never do that.”

“Then why don’t you want him to find out about her?” He leaned closer. “Would he hurt her?”

The smile held steady as she shook her head. “Not in the way you think.”

“Okay, then in what way?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She took another sip as Emma grabbed an apple and sat at the table with them.

He was growing frustrated. Getting information from Izzy was like pulling teeth with chopsticks, so he decided to circle back to his original line of questioning.

“Why did you think he’d found you when I showed up?”

She hesitated. Cleared her throat. Pulled at a thread on her shirt.

“Really?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended. “Nothing?”

She pushed away from the table and put her half-empty cup in the sink, her willowy frame seeming frail for the first time. Had she starved, as well? A burst of heat rushed through him at the thought.

He decided to push her. If she tased him again, he probably deserved it. But if she ran now, he may never have another chance. He may never get answers. She may never be safe. “I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, Killer, but after what I’ve been through, I think I’m owed an explanation.”

She scoffed and turned to look at him, bracing her hands on the sink’s edge behind her. “Really? Someone like you, with your lifestyle? Are you sure you deserve anything?”

Another clue. He pondered her words for a long moment. “Mylifestyle,” he said, deep in thought.

“You guys stick together like saltwater taffy, right?”

“You guys?” he asked, feigning offense.

“Isn’t that your thing?”

As they spoke, the squirt’s head swiveled back and forth on her tiny body as though she were watching a tennis match. He barricaded his heart. If he wanted answers, now was not the time to cave to their charms.

“Who, exactly, are ‘you guys?’”

She gestured to his entire being with a sweep of her hand, like he disgusted her. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this one kind of hurt.

He grabbed his heart—not literally—and raised his brows askance.

After a long moment, she huffed out a breath—the act far too sexy for his peace of mind—and pointed at…his arm?

He wore a white T-shirt and jeans with heavy boots. Had he ridden his bike over, he would also have a jacket on. But he hadn’t, so he didn’t. Thus, his arms were visible. Making his plethora of tattoos—some he was actually proud of—visible, as well. But he couldn’t tell which one she had taken such offense to. The dogs playing cards—classic—or maybe the skull with a snake slithering through its eyes? He shook his head. “Look, I’m fairly sure I’m concussed, thanks to the frying pan thing. Can you be more specific?”

She scoffed once more, and he made a mental note to do as many annoying things to her as possible, so she did it again. She stepped forward and pointed at his motorcycle club’s official tattoo. Hisformermotorcycle club.

The squirt leaned over him to get a better view, apple crunching in her mouth. “Oh, I like that one,” she said, running her fingers over the artwork. It was the official mark of anationwide bike club called the Bandits. A triangle with a skull inside and two swords crossing under it, very similar to the international sign for poison. No one had ever accused the Bandits of being creative.

He had an appointment this week for a full cover-up. In two days, to be exact. None of this would’ve happened if he’d already gotten it done. She would never have seen the tattoo, tased him, or taken a frying pan to his skull. She wouldn’t have leaned against him with those thighs.

What were the odds that he would get a call the very day he made the appointment? The artist, a good friend of his, had a cancellation and was able to get him in. Usually, it took months to get in with her, friend or not.

He thought back to the phone call he’d gotten at two this morning. The frantic voice. The franticyoungvoice.

Realization dawned, and a sense of astonishment sent an arctic chill up his spine. No way.

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