Page 18 of Isaac

His eyes are intense, the color of dark chocolate, framed by thick, long lashes any woman would be jealous of.

He takes another step, swallowing up the distance between us, his shoes clacking lightly against the warm pavement.

When he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—something fresh and salty like an ocean breeze in this sweltering desert hellhole—every single muscle in my body tightens. He is in my personal space now, his face on the same level with mine. He is studying me with ruthless efficiency as if searching for something. And this proximity with him—with my target—sends a strange thrill through my veins.

"Can I?" Isaac husks out, reaching out for my cigarette I’m holding between my thumb and my finger.

I release it and he slides into the corner of his mouth and inhales.

Just one long drag.

His chest expands, the silk straining against his skin a little, as he inhales deeply.

Then he returns the cigarette.

I take it.

Seconds tick by…

He exhales, pushing the smoke out and blowing it right into my face, his expression almost mocking, the same silent challenge I sensed earlier inside.

"I like it," Isaac half-whispers.

I’m utterly confused as to what exactly he is referring to. I lift my eyebrow in a silent question, waiting—not hoping—for some clarification.

"The fact that you’re good at keeping your mouth shut." Isaac pauses. "Hawk."

I jump on this opening. "Loose tongues make people disappear." I shove whatever is left of the cigarette into my mouth and pull in a deep breath. The smoke slips inside—we are already familiar with each other and know how things work and the smoke rings come out with ease when I blow them out.

They float around lazily in the tight space between Thoreau and me.

"Smart," he says.

No soft sentiments here, no mincing words, no innuendos, or hiding behind emotionally enigmatic euphemisms–only blunt truths.

He says nothing else, just turns around and leaves.

CHAPTER 7

ISAAC

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling of my penthouse condo, the flickering neon lights from the Vegas Strip painting distorted patterns across the white surface. Exhausted after a long and shitty night at the club, my body sinks into the king-sized mattress as I listen to the distant sounds of sirens and music from the city that never sleeps.

There are times I want complete silence, but today I need some distraction and I left the balcony door slightly open to allow the noise to slip in.

This condo is just one of the few properties I legitimately own. Another one of those properties on my impressive real estate list is a mansion just outside the city, that mocks the rest of Vegas suburbia from its hilltop.

But that place is reserved for those sporadic, lethargic days when I don’t mind fighting the traffic and when I'm not swamped with work—which isn't now.

I should be resting, regaining my strength for another hectic weekend night at Purgatory tomorrow. But sleep eludes me. Instead, my thoughts are consumed by Hawk—or Cody Smith—whose file I secretly looked at again after our encounter the other evening in the back alley.

It's pissing me off, this inexplicable fixation on the man who’s supposed to be nobody.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, rubbing my temples as if it would force him out of my mind. But the more I try, the stronger his presence grows. Like a stubborn stain refusing to be scrubbed away.

The way he matched my stare—it’s a skill honed by years of hard work. It’s a skill not many men who work for me possess. And a small part of me admires it.

His sharp, intelligent gaze haunts me each time I close my eyes and I wonder what secrets he’s hiding behind that mask of indifference.

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