Page 4 of Sunshine & Sinful

The nosy bartender makes a sound in the back of her throat that sounds a whole lot like she doesn’t believe me. “Where’s Sunshine? You seen him lately?” Till asks, probably wanting to spend some alone time with the hot biker.

Refusing to talk about this now or ever, I shrug up one shoulder and drop it casually. “I plead the fifth.”

“Seriously? Again?”

“Yes.”

“You ever gonna tell us what happened?”

“Nope.” That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. It’s the same thing I’ve repeated time and time again since I returned home.

“Kali.” Till’s sharp tone holds a warning that I give zero fucks about.

“I’m takin’ it to the grave.” I twist an imaginary lock on my lips and toss the invisible key over my shoulder.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Till pouts like a toddler, getting frustrated with me. It won’t be the first or the last time. “You should talk to someone. Nobody has seen Dark or Sunshine in months, meaning something happened while you were gone. You’re just not telling us.”

“No. I’m not. I’m living my life.” I’m doing the best I can, given what’s happened.

Till turns on the sofa to face me, a knee bent on a cushion, the other leg hanging over the edge. “You havebags under your eyes.” She stares at them as if it isn’t offensive to point out the obvious.

Scrunching my nose at her, I scoff. “Rude. Much. I’m over forty. What do you expect?” Playing into Till’s audacity, I slowly prod the bags under my eyes with my middle finger, one, then the next.

The pain in the ass snorts, not at all impressed by my friendly gesture. “You know that’s not what I mean. You’re sad and dating a tool you met at the bar.”

Here we go.

Again.

“Todd isnota tool.” He’s really not. I’ve met plenty of tools. I was married to one for two decades. Dark is the king of tools who also has a massive tool between his legs. Ew. I’m not thinking about it ever again. Not unless it involves him losing said appendage in a rare shark attack or some random woman he fucks tires of his shit and goes Lorena Bobbitt on his cheating ass.

Cell pulls a face like she also thinks Todd’s a tool and she’s only met him once.

“His name is Todd, Kali,” Till says, as if that explains everything. “Todd,” Till repeats for no reason but to annoy me. “The man doesn’t have a single tattoo on his body, and he drives aToy-o-ta.” The exasperating woman emphasizes the manufacturer as if that somehow makes a lick of difference. She’s a lovable asshole, but I’m tired of where this conversation is leading already.

“What’s wrong with that?” I gesture for her to give me an actual reason. When she says nothing, I continue, “Toyotas are dependable, and tattoos aren’t for everybody.” I flip heroff for putting her nose where it doesn’t belong. Then again, I’d put my nose in her business, too, if I were half as worried as they have been about me. But she’s going about this the wrong way—attacking a man who doesn’t deserve her disdain. Todd has been nothing but pleasant to everyone.

“Your men ride Harleys and wear leather cuts. They don’t have boring names like Todd. Your men have tattoos of a particular Goddess on their ribs.” Till waggles her dark, perfectly symmetrical brows, then lifts them to her hairline as if daring me to argue that logic with her. Which I won’t because I can’t win. I could also add that apparently, my men, who are no longer my men, well, one of them, has a tattoo of my lips by his appendage, too. Not that she’ll ever know that, either. I still don’t believe they’re my lips to begin with. Even if they look more like mine than Abby’s, which is the only other pair of lips Dark would ever ink onto his flesh.

Ugh.

I don’t want to think about either of them, much less discuss them openly with my sisters. Fuck that, fuck them, and fuck these bags under my eyes. And… and fuck Till for pointing out I’m sad and that Todd is a boring name. It is.

No more Harleys for me.

Only sensible men with boring names, sensible cars, and no tattoos.

When I sneer at Till, the bitch doesn’t relent. She keeps going, which draws other sisters from the bowels of the underground apartment into the common room for the public reaming of Kali—which is me, in case youforgot. At least I have my chocolate for comfort when Till rudely asks, “Does he fuck as vanilla as he looks?”

Cell rolls onto her side on the couch and cackles, knees pulled to her chest like a small child.

Sugar captures Cell’s mug before she makes a mess and politely covers her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

Other sisters join in on the merriment of Till and her bullshit.

I glower at her, cheeks burning as hot as the sun.

“I’ll poison you,” I warn, even though we all know I won’t. I love Till, even if she’s irritating as hell, and I wanna punch her in the tit.

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