Page 18 of Kilo's Edge

Because I’d barely slept. My damn dick was nearly raw from how many times I’d had a go at it last night. Gorgeous, dark-eyed women were not in my plans. At least not long-term, but my feelings didn’t seem to matter. My body, heart, and mind had rebelled and there wasn’t anything I could seem to do about it. It was making me a little cranky. Or maybe it was the fact that I was here and not finding some reason to visit the grocery store where Camila worked. Who knew at this point? Fuck, I’d become club caterer if it meant I had an excuse to go see her.

Ruck started church, forcing Overdrive to stop asking questions. Thank fuck. I listened as they spoke about the construction of the new apartments, trying to keep my mind focused.

“You bring any of those supplies back?” Flir asked, looking my way.

“A bucket of nails,” I replied.

He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled something down.

“Window get in alright?” Bolo asked me.

“Who’s window?” Drifter asked.

“Friends’,” I answered, then looked over at Bolo and nodded. “Yeah, it’s good now.”

“Maybe I should take a look. Make sure it’s not going to fall out,” he joked.

“If it does then it just means you’re a shitty teacher,” I shot back with a grin.

He flipped me off.

Ruck put an end to our back and forth. “We’re having a party in a couple weeks. Maybe you should bring your friend.”

That did it. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked over at me. I glared at Ruck.

“What’d I miss?” Relay, our Chaplin, asked with an amused smile. “Who are you bringing?”

“No one,” I muttered. “Not sure she’d be comfortable with that,” I added when Ruck raised an eyebrow.

“Then bring her to the barbeque first,” he offered.

“Barbeque…” Strike said with wide eyes. “Wait, did Kilo get himself an old lady?” Strike was our secretary and wasn’t used to being the last to know shit.

“No,” I answered at the same time as Overdrive said, “Looks like it’s going that way.”

Letting out a humorless laugh, I shook my head. I always knew that whoever the poor fucker was, who brought home an old lady first, was going to have to pave the way. I just never thought that asshole would be me. Not that I was fully on board with making Camila my old lady. We’d get to know one another and see where it went. That was what I kept telling myself. And I wasn’t idiot enough to not realize I was fucking fooling myself. I was heading toward the deep end with a goddamned smile on my face.

CHAPTER 8

Camila

Istared down at the sundress I was wearing and shook my head. Kilo probably didn't realize the conundrum he’d put me in. We were going to shoot my new gun, then go to dinner. How was I supposed to dress? For shooting? Or for dinner? I couldn’t wear heels to a gun range. At least I didn’t think I should. But I didn’t want to show up to dinner with a gorgeous man while I was dressed in a t-shirt. I sighed and lifted the hem of the dress out as I considered my problem.

“You look beautiful.”

Turning my head, I smiled at Carmen as she bounced into my room and took a seat on the bed. I hadn’t told her or Mama that I’d bought a gun. It wasn’t worth worrying them over. Though I did have it tucked up in my closet, high on a shelf. It was also still in the case. Carmen was old enough to know not to play with the things, but I wasn't taking any chances. “Thank you.”

“What shoes are you wearing?”

“I don't even know if I’m wearing this,” I told her, staring back at my reflection.

“Why not?” she asked. “The red looks so good on you.”

It was a cute dress that cut down far enough that Mama was going to frown at me for showing that much cleavage, and was short enough to show off my thighs. I really wanted to wear it for Kilo. It had sat in my closet for years now and this felt like the right time to let it see the light of day. “I don't know where we’re going.” It was the only way I could think of to relay my dilemma without telling her about the range. “What if it’s not somewhere dress appropriate?”

She tilted her head as we both studied my reflection in the mirror. “Wear it with sneakers,” she finally said, a determined note in her voice.

I laughed and shook my head. That solution did solve the problem of my footwear at least.

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