Page 47 of Burn the Wild

I glare at him. “Wrong answer, asshole.”

“You’re both boring.” She lifts a hand, causing her bangles to rattle. “I’m going to dance.” With that, she stands and heads to the dance floor.

Lionel looks pissy. “Thanks a lot, Montgomery.”

I jab a finger his way. “You don’t fucking touch that girl.”

His lips curl and he rises to stand.

I turn to go, but before I can walk away, he says, “I know who she is.”

I whip my head to him and slam him back against the wall. “Keep your mouth shut about her.”

If people pull out their phones, it’ll be over. She doesn’t want to be found even if she is doing a piss-poor job at covering her tracks.

“What’s in it for me?”

A muscle clenches in my jaw. I want to hit him, but I can’t. We have a tentative truce with the Wolfingtons. If I fuck that up, I have to deal with Davis.

“Here.” I reach into my pocket, then shove a wad of bills against his chest. “A hundred bucks a day until that girl leaves.”

“Deal.” Lionel’s mouth parts in a sneer. “Although you might want to make sure she doesn’t blow her own cover.”

Letting go of his collar, I follow his gaze and groan. Reese is at the jukebox, swinging her hips to an old Townes Van Zandt song.

“Goddamn it.”

I storm over to her.

“You got a quarter?” she breathes, eyes on the jukebox. I shelled out a pretty penny last year to replace it.

“One song.” I drop it in the slot. “Then we go.”

Ignoring me, Reese selects a number. The bar fills with Loretta Lynn’s melancholy twang.

I lean into her. “Newsflash, honey. Hanna Montana could do a better job at keeping her identity a secret.”

“I don’t care anymore.” She straightens up and stares at me, emerald eyes flashing. “Go,” she says. “No one asked you to come. I have plans to drink, dance, and get drunk.”

“You’re already drunk,” I growl.

Hands on the side of the jukebox, Reese closes her eyes and dances. My cock flexes as she sways her body. Unfortunately, every eye in the bar is on her as well. They can smell fresh blood from miles away.

“Get over here.” Hand on her elbow, I guide her to the bar, forcing my breath to steady. After I settle her on a bar stool, I ask, “How many beers have you had?”

“Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

She laughs. “Nunya business.”

I roll my eyes. “Real mature.” I sit beside her. “You’ve had five beers because Beef over there has been counting.”

“Traitor,” she mouths to Beef, who looks offended. The pout of her pillowy lips makes her look simultaneously haughty and innocent.

“Anyone ever told you that you drink too much?”

“Hmmm. Several people and they’re all dead right now.”

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