Page 17 of It Takes a Thief
“Mer? Is that your nickname?”
I pull my lower lip between my teeth, wondering why I told him to call me something only my grandpa used to when he was alive, and that only Charity does now. Not wanting to think too hard about it, I merely nod.
Desperately wanting to change the subject, I start walking again and he falls into step beside me. “You live in Denver, right?”
“Yeah.” He seems to hesitate before saying, “But I grew up here.”
“Really? It must be nice to be back.”
I notice his posture stiffen, and his voice is tight when he offers a clipped, “Yeah.”
“Are your parents still here?”
“My dad left when I was only eight, and Ma died not long after. I went to live with my Uncle George—her brother—and he tried to raise me, but...” His voice trails off. “I was a hellion.”
“Who? You? I don’t believe it,” I tease.
“I liked to fight. It was the one thing I was good at. Plus, I had a lot of anger inside me. Fighting helped me get out my feelings physically, because I sure didn’t talk to a therapist.”
“You don’t talk to your father?”
“No.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I wisely drop it. My heart aches for the little boy who lost his parents and whose only outlet was fighting. I stop short, wanting to know more about him. “Take me somewhere you used to go. Somewhere I’ve never been before.”
“You don’t want to go to my old neighborhood. Trust me.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe. And, in case you forgot, my job is to protect you.”
Although I’m grateful for his protection, his words bother me. Guess I don’t like being reminded I’m merely a job. Yet again.
“There is one place, though…” His voice trails off thoughtfully, and I wait for him to elaborate. “A place I used to go to celebrate after a good fight. You up for a subway ride and a slice of greasy pizza?”
I smile. “Sounds divine.”
He snorts out a laugh. “I don’t know about that, but I’m willing to bet you’ve never been there before. It’s off the beaten path and definitely not the fancy food you usually eat, but it’s the best pizza in all of Manhattan.”
“Excuse me, but I love pizza just as much as the next person. Especially if it’s covered in feta and olives.”
“Feta?” He nudges me with his elbow, and I smirk. “See what I mean? Fancy.”
“Bring on the pepperoni then,” I challenge him. “The greasier, the better.”
I really like seeing this laidback, more relaxed side of him. We keep up the small talk and banter on the subway ride, which takes us to a neighborhood on the Lower East Side. He’s right, I don’t ever come to this part of town, but as we head up Stanton Street, I’m beyond curious. There’s a vibrancy in the air that draws me forward. Or maybe it’s the big hunk of man walking beside me, his huge arm brushing against mine with every step.
“There it is,” he announces, pointing to a corner restaurant with a sign in the window that says Pops’s Pizza. Linc pushes the door open and jazz music fills my ears. The plastic red and white checked tables look ancient, but the place has a certain Old-World charm.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a man exclaims as we walk up to the counter. “Lincoln ‘Lights Out’ Decker is back in my restaurant?”
Linc grins at the shorter Italian man, his big belly covered in a tomato sauce-stained apron. They shake hands firmly, lean in and slap each other on the back.
“It’s been too long,” Linc says, then turns to me. “Pops, I’d like you to meet my friend, Merritt.”
“Hello,” I say. “I hear you have the best pizza in Manhattan.”
“I love her.” Pops gives my hand an enthusiastic pump and sends a sly look in Linc’s direction. “Just friends, huh? Then you won’t mind me flirting a bit, right?”
