Page 43 of Forty

“Fine,” she huffs. “I’m helping her with the old peeps. She’s showing me the ropes. Since I can’t seem to get a job in this town, she’s hooking me up. It’s called companion care.”

“Companion care?”

“Yeah. Help old people with chores. Make sure they’re taking their meds. Hang out and chat. Watch a lot of baseball with the volume turned all the way up.”

“You’re working with seniors?”

“Yup. Like I said, Shirlene’s hooking me up.”

I don’t know what to say. Heavy put the word out that anyone who wants to do business with Steel Bones would do well not to hire her. It’s clear she’spersona non grata.

Why would Shirlene pick this battle? She’s an old timer. Keeps her head down, helps with the cookouts, and spends her time with Boots and his crew, playing spades and talking about the glory days. She and Nevaeh were always tight, though. And Shirlene does what she wants.

Nevaeh makes a show of scanning the room, but she glances back from the corner of her eye. “What? You think I can’t do it?”

That’s a loaded question, so I ask one of my own. “Why would Shirlene go against the club for you?”

A funny expression flits across her face. Nags at my memory. A softness. A vulnerability. Before I know it, I take another step closer.

“Shirlene’s my girl. We’re ride or die.” Nevaeh tucks her legs to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. I'd forgotten how she does this—constant movement. She speaks with her whole body like some people speak with their hands.

“You two talk?”

Nevaeh shrugs a shoulder. “Every month or so. Mostly she texts me memes and recipes for crap I will never make. Better Than Sex cake. That’s a sad name for a cake, man.”

This time, I can’t hold it back. My lips twitch. She notices, and she flips and bounces so she’s kneeling again. Her hair takes a few extra seconds to come to rest.

“So, you were out with Shirlene and Lou was at work when your car was keyed?”

“Yes, detective. You can check my alibi. It’s air tight.” She winks, and my cock jerks painfully in my jeans.

She knows what she’s doing. What she’s offering, kneeling at the foot of my bed like that. I want to take it. My body’s aching to take it. If this were back in the day, I’d be balls deep in her by now. But this isn’t then. And I kind of want to keep talking.

She speaks in circles. She always has. It would drive me nuts, but I loved it, too. She was funny. She still is. And I liked the sound of her voice. Like a chipmunk with a pack a day habit.

I move to my desk, ease out the chair, and sit. She kind of flounces onto her butt and dangles her legs over the side of the bed. I got a California King with storage underneath. Her feet don’t reach the floor. Now there’s dirt scuffs from her heels on that part of the comforter, too. I could bend her over the edge, and she’d be at the perfect height.

My balls ache. I shift and make it worse.

“So what are we gonna do? Sit here and stare at each other while Big George buffs my hood?”

“Who do you think did it?”

Of course, it was the Rebel Raiders. They either followed me there, they had a man on us last night—which would be a huge problem since that operation ended with blood—or they saw her around town and remembered her from back in the day. With that hair and that ass, there’s no mistaking her.

She cocks her head to the side. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“I ask a question, and you never answer it.”

“Your questions aren’t serious.”

She blows a curl out of her face. “Do. You. Think. I. Can’t. Do. Companion. Care.” She drums her heels against the bed base a few times in emphasis. “Question mark.”

I don’t know what to say.

She glares at me.

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