Page 66 of All Jacked Up

“I don’t sleep in those. I don’t sleep in anything.”

Oh.

He smirked at my reaction. “I’m assuming you would rather I not get naked.”

Eh, he’d be wrong there.

“Yeah, better not do that.” I hadn’t even sounded believable.

He stretched out his long legs and crossed his arms behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

“How much more of the book you’re working on do you have left?” he asked, changing the subject.

I never really knew. It all depended on the characters and where they took me. “Not sure. Maybe thirty thousand more words,” I guessed.

“I’d ask what man you’re using for inspiration for this one, but I don’t think I want to know.”

That was probably for the best. Since it was him. I feared it would always be him.

If he could change the subject, so could I.

“Other than run a distillery, what do you do? You know, with your organized crime and all,” I asked him.

We hadn’t spoken about it since he’d blurted it out to me without any warning. I was curious. I’d been trying to imaginethe different guys in this house as characters in my favorite Mafia romance novels, but it wasn’t working. They didn’t fit the part. Especially Gathe.

“Mostly organize my cigars, have my fedoras dry-cleaned, and try to master an authentic Brooklyn accent.”

I reached for the extra pillow beside me and hit him with it while laughing.

“Hey! Okay, fine. I also spend a good bit of time going over a list of nicknames I want to be called,” he said, grabbing the pillow and tossing it to the floor.

“I’m being serious,” I told him.

He frowned. “I am too.”

Rolling my eyes, I continued staring at him, waiting for a real answer.

He blew out a breath, then stretched, which only flexed his biceps, causing my eyes to lock on them with fascination.

“I do what I’m told, Shakespeare. Follow orders.”

“From who?”

“The boss.”

I licked my bottom lip, knowing I should let this go because he didn’t look comfortable talking about it. But I wanted to know. Not because I was being nosy or I intended to use it in a book, but because it was his life.

“What kind of orders?”

He smirked but stared up at the ceiling and not at me. “Things that have to be handled.”

“That was vague,” I pointed out.

He nodded. “Yep.” Then he turned his head to glance at me. “I can’t tell you what we do, Shakespeare. And not because I don’t trust you. The more you know, the more danger that puts you in.”

My stomach knotted up. I didn’t like the reminder that he lived this secret side life, where he needed guns and there was achance that he could be shot. Killed.

“You’ve gone pale. What is running through that creative brain of yours?”

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