Page 22 of Bullet

“Nah. She’s just quitting to go to hair school.”

I promised myself this would be about business only, but this man’s natural sexual energy that seems to radiate from him like a heater that just won’t shut off in the middle of a summer warm streak is going to test my resolve.

It’s far safer to be an ice queen, so that’s the front I give him, quickly realigning my defenses, checking to make sure there aren’t any holes in them.

“Anyway. Lard. Shortening. Let me take a look.” He rummages through the cabinets, first the tops and then the bottoms, and finally exclaims in triumph. He straightens, holding a blue tin in hand. “I believe I’ve found it, and I didn’teven have to get Lark. She’d have certainly told me that I was looking with my man eyes, and she would have been right. It was there, directly in front.”

My breath catches when he sets the tin down on the counter. He leans in too close, but not in that creepy, demanding way. I’m thankful for the extra layer of my blazer. The last thing I want is for my hard nipples to go peeking through my bra and blouse.

It doesn’t seem to matter when Hamish backs off, or when he walks to the matching fifties-style table and slides out one of the red vinyl chairs to the middle of the kitchen.

He sits down facing the opposite direction, with his arms resting on the chair’s back. His direct, unrelenting gaze skewers me. I guess I did this to myself, choosing to come here in the first place, and then this absurd suggestion of pie making.

I start peeling apples, already going through a recipe I know by heart. I’m slow and methodical, trying to allow myself to get completely absorbed in the task. It doesn’t work. As soon as I’m done peeling and slicing the apples, Hamish drops a question.

“What would you change if you could? What would make you feel better about taking this job?”

I measure out dry ingredients, trying to be blasé, which I know most people take as aloofness. “We’re not going there already, are we? I thought this conversation would at least be softened by some alcohol.”

I angle my back to the beast of a man making that chair look like doll’s furniture, but I can basically hear the smile in his response. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate trying to be plied with drink.”

“I don’t, but I thought it would at least be on offer.”

“Would you like me to get you one?”

“No.” I nearly upend the whole bag of flour trying to fill a single measuring cup. “I’m driving out of here after. I booked a motel room.”

“Stubborn to the last.”

He’s right. I’ll never give it up. I’ve had to fend for myself for too long, struggling and fighting upstream. “I thought this pie was supposed to be a distraction.”

“From what?”

“Or a warm-up. To the merits of debating right and wrong, morality and immorality, black and white, and how far I could be convinced to make it stretch in my mind and continue to make it stretch in the future. You’re not just interviewing me. I’m here to do the same.”

“I never implied that.”

The flour hits the large metal bowl with a soft whoosh. “All the same…”

“Well, if you won’t let me get you a drink, or help you with the pie, I have no choice but to sit here and hear your thoughts.”

It’s the way he says it that wraps around me like warm honey trickling down a sore throat. It’s been a very long time since anyone truly wanted to hear my thoughts about anything. Willa certainly doesn’t. I’ve purposely kept most of my truth from her in order to protect her from the harsh realities of life before she was ready to face them.

When I still had a job, it’s not like I discussed personal stuff with my colleagues.

I have almost no friends.

Hamish’s face is nothing but open and curious, and despite my better judgment, I find myself pouring out the stuff in my brain. My hands keep working, measuring dry ingredients before I’ll start on the wet.

“I realize that most clubs, gangs, and organized crime all deal in the same thing. Women, guns, and drugs.”

He tries to protest, opening his mouth, but I forge ahead so he knows I’m not going straight into issues of morality again. He doesn’t have to defend his club against me yet.

“They funnel illegal money through legit businesses. If you don’t do women or hard drugs, that leaves you with really just one option.” I give him a dramatic stare down. “How long is it before you’re going to get nailed for a weapons charge in a big way, especially with an enemy like Harold?”

There is no proper response to that because anyone’s hopes would be never, but realistically, it’s probably a short timeframe.

“My suggestion is stopping the illegal shit. If you’re dealing in marijuana, then that’s not really out of the realm of possibilities because it’s legal in so many places. I know it’s not entirely profitable, not to the level a club would need, but there are plenty of other enterprises. Real estate. Stocks. Crypto.”

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