Page 4 of Blue

Mooky should have paid more attention in high school Spanish and less to Angela. After all the time dealing with the Flores family, he should have regained some of the language, but no. Unfortunately, all he understood was his own name.

“Hey,” he said, lifting a hand in greeting.

Deep brown eyes fixated on him as her full, probably artificially plumped lips spread into a smile laced with intention. “Hola,” she said.

“¿Hablas Español?” she asked as she draped her arm around his shoulders.

“Uh, no.” Mooky shook his head. Sirens blared in his brain.

A brief frown creased her features as she let out a soft huff. “No necesitamos hablar.”

Her soft, most likely real breasts pressed to his chest as she leaned forward.

Fuck him sideways. Abort. Abort.He had to get the hell out of there. The time to go had long passed.

Why were her tits vibrating? She must have some sort of fancy piercing. He didn’t remember seeing any sort of jewelry dangling from her boobs. With the way she’d been decked out, he could’ve missed it.

Just as her lips brushed against his, he stiffened.

Nope. Wrong lips. Wrong mouth.

Wait. He knew what vibrated.

“Oh shit,” he said against her mouth, making no attempt to return the affections.

She gasped and pulled back, wearing a pout. Obviously, she was none too pleased.

Mooky slipped his hand into his cut and retrieved the small flip phone. “Club business.”

He looked past the woman in his lap to Emiliano. She may not have understood him, but that guy had to get it. The man’s expression hardened, but he nodded when Mooky opened the phone. The screen lit up, showing the call.

Doing his best not to dump Camila onto her ass, he got up from the couch. She muttered something he couldn’t understand in Spanish, but he’d wager they were a slew of cuss words.

“Pendejo.”

Ah! He knew that one.

“Yah?” He put his phone to his ear as he sought a quiet and private area. The bathroom would do. He’d never been more grateful for his club to call him in the middle of a party than at that moment.

“What’s the deal with Dylan Holt?” Clark asked curtly.

“Who?”

“Officer. Dylan. Holt.” The Ohio club president annunciated each word slowly.

Closing the door to the bathroom for privacy and to shut out the noise, Mooky’s legs wobbled slightly. He didn’t think he’d drunk that much, but he’d never had this Columbian shit before.

Focusing on the call, he scanned his brain for the name. Dylan. Holt. Dylan Holt? A cop.

“Shouty McFuckface,” he mumbled as it came to him.

“What?”

Mooky brought his hand to his forehead and tried to rub the foggy drunkenness away. “Fuck.”

“Is he an issue?” Clark pressed.

“Shouldn’t be.” Mooky shook his head and lowered his hand. “Fucker’s banging my wife. He’s trying to jam me up.”

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