Page 8 of Bullet

He wears no jewelry at all, and his hands, from what I saw of them, were manly, but clean.

Even with his brutish size and sporting a black t-shirt, leather jacket, dark-washed jeans so worn they’ve gone light in many spots, and his big biker boots, he manages to look like someone’s extremely hot dad. Certainly not a criminal. Looks can be deceiving. Just because he’s not what I thought he’d be and my pulse won’t stop racing whenever I look at him, doesn’t mean he’s not exactly what I assumed him to be.

A terrible man with blood-stained hands.

His face actuallylights upwhen he spots me standing here, arms crossed. The wind whips straight through my blazer and the thin blouse I have on underneath, but I pretend I don’t feel it. I slant my arms over my chest to keep from shaking in the cold, but if he wants to think I’m annoyed at the massive imposition of him, he can go right ahead.

The way his lips turn up causes the small lines around his eyes to deepen, and the hard slash of his cheekbones above where his beard starts to stand out taut and defined.

The most absurd image of me sinking my hands into that beard to learn the texture of the thick, gnarly hairs, to tame it into a long braid, burns itself into my brain.

I turn my back, determined that we’re not going to have this conversation in front of the damn police station. There’s a coffee shop down the street. This certainly isn’t my first time here. I’m well acquainted with the area.

The coffee is disgusting, the staff outright rude, and the building itself is hardly ever properly clean, but the idea of getting out of the biting wind is attractive. I left my coat behind at my office in my eagerness to get down to the station this morning. Rookie mistake.

Clasping my vintage leather briefcase, I charge down the block, confident that my client will follow.

That’s the only way I should be thinking of him. Certainly not with the flowing sound of his unique real name, and never by his ridiculous club moniker.

I’m very well aware of the beast of a man trailing at my back. I’m aware of every footfall, every breath, of the image of hismuscled body that my brain just won’t give up on, right down to hands so massive I’m sure they could span all the way around my waist and probably break me right the fuck in half.

Why my stomach should bottom out and tingleat that horrible thought, I have no idea.

I don’t find violence attractive. I defend people who have done bad things, simple as that. I could say no, now that I’m a few years in, but I rarely ever decline work sent my way. The toughest cases are just a little bit of an extra challenge. I’m good at what I do, and I take pride in that. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself time and again, whenever my conscience pricks me. Sure, the real truth is that I make good money, but in a city where the average house price is up around eight hundred thousand dollars, I need to make a good salary in order to survive. It’s not just me. I have Willa to care for and provide for as well.

The coffee shop is the same as I remembered it. Grungy, tables unwashed and cluttered with old coffee cups, a snarling, surly teenage girl who can’t stop rolling her eyes. I order two black coffees and choose the cleanest table, picking up the old paper coffee cup and balled-up napkins to deposit them in the trash.

I ignore the scathing look the blonde barista sends me for daring to come in and patronize the place.

My client has already seated himself at the table. They’re the same average, square, soulless things you’d see in most fast-food places that haven’t been updated. The chairs match, hard wood frames with padded blue seats, the vinyl ripped and torn on just about every single one of them.

I ignore the way that he fills out that chair, long legs tucked up under the table, his knees probably resting on the underside so that his feet don’t cut into space that shouldn’t be his. Unlike me, he doesn’t put on a blank mask. He smiles into his coffee like there’s not a greasy film on the top and the grounds probably haven’t been re-brewed, which makes the coffee smell and taste like an ashtray.

He’s not trying to intimidate me, but I stare him down like he is, and I’m refusing to give way. I refuse to show weakness, though he’s not probing for it. I came prepared, utterly professional and ice queen cold to the point of rude, but he doesn’t even care. He just smiles that absurdly attractive grin of his.

“It’s terrible, but I’d drink that black if I were you. The sugar probably has fly eggs, and the cream is likely eight days old.”

He chuckles softly and it takes everything in me to ward off the hot blast that the sound seems to send through the air like a dangerous radio wave.

“You think I’m kidding?” I shrug. “Your funeral.”

“I can’t go and die and make things easy on you. I’ll take it black, even if I have a rather hardy stomach.”

I need to bring this back around to business, which means wiping that far too attractive smile off his face. “I can see that you’re clearly happy to be out of the station, but don’t think you’re getting off that easy. There’s still going to be a court date.”

“Yes. September twenty-third.”

Just under a month from now. That leaves me lots of time to prepare, but on the other hand, it gives Harold and Donny plenty of time as well.

“I’d watch yourself,” I advise under my breath in a voice that’s hard and biting. “Harold has insider information on your club, which includes anything he could have gathered in the way of physical evidence with or without your club knowing, and if that’s not enough to nail you, he could create something else to have you charged. You own a range, and I know your club has to be involved in illegal activities. If he can tie you to anything, you could be facing far worse than just assault charges.”

Instead of stiffening or growing concerned, all he does is lean back in his chair and sip the coffee with a sigh that means he doesn’t mind the taste at all.

I want to gag.

And trace the lines of his shoulders, with all the corded muscle straining the soft leather beneath his jacket.

He rests one hand on the table and keeps sipping that coffee like he has all the time in the world, and zero worries.

---