Page 32 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
My teeth grind. “People assume what they want. He likely thought she was in costume.”
“That’s dumb, and I think you’re lying.” He grumbles under his breath about howhewould do things but then points out, “Raven has a motorcycle.”
“She won’t let anyone borrow it.”
His eyes narrow. “So you all head into town by taxi every time you need groceries?”
“Fine,” I admit. Fucker is persistent. “We have an old pickup truck and a project car some of the sisters work on to learn about mechanics.”
“It’s in that shed there, isn’t it?” Clearly pleased with himself, he points to the old wooden barn down an offshoot from the main driveway. It’s almost hidden behind bushes and trees. He wouldn’t know what’s inside unless he’s broken in... or—he jingles as he jogs down the steps and strides toward it.Keys in his pocket. Sister Agnes is one of the mechanics. Maybe he checked in on her, and she gave him the keys.
I can’t imagine Thea handing them over. Sinners are too set in our ways, and taking a cab or a share ride is usually how we do things. I jog after him and catch him unlocking the padlock at the barn doors.
“It won’t matter.” I slam my palm on the door as he tries to open it. “We don’t use it on missions for a good reason. The car links the crime back to us if we’re caught.”
“Switch the plates.” He tugs the door hard, knocking me out of the way as he walks in.
Damn it. The dust and straw he kicked up bloom in my face. I wave to clear the air and then follow him inside. He drags a white tarp from our black vintage Mustang and gives a loud wolf whistle of appreciation.
Great. Now he’s eye fucking the thing. He’ll never let this go.
I fold my arms. “Where will we find fake license plates at this late notice?”
He flashes me a disarming grin. “I know a guy.”
“Sure you do,” I mumble. “You know arms dealers... why not a chop shop?”
Curiously, my words make him falter as he opens the driver’s side door. But he swiftly recovers and inhales deeply as the smell of polished leather fills the air.
“Ahhh.” He releases a breathy, deep, and lust-filled growl. “Nothing beats this smell. Except a woman’s—”
“Don’t say it.” I hold up my hand, and his grin widens to something mischievous. Even when he was a teen, he was a lewd son-of-a-bitch. I had no idea what he meant back then when he said things like awoman’s kittyor hersavory delights. That’s what I liked about him; I was basically his kid sister, but he never treated me with kid gloves. I was just me—normal me. Not the fire starter. Not the weird spitfire no one wanted to adopt. Just me.
My lip twitches with the need to smile, a fact he picks up on as hazel eyes lock with mine. His amusement falters as he reads my face. He’s no longer a teenager spouting incomprehensible rude shit. He’s a man with experience and desires who recognizes that the woman before him is amused because she’s thinking the same lewd things as him.
A strange feeling bounces between us, and I can’t put my finger on it. Whatever is happening right now has to be shut down.
I blurt out the first thing I think of. “Raven told you to take the car, didn’t she?”
I take immense pleasure in the guilt splashing over his facial features. While I couldn’t have a one-on-one with her because of her migraine, I know how she works. If she couldn’t say it to him, then she would have told someone to tell him when the time was right.
“How did you—?” he starts. “Never mind.”
He slides into the driver’s seat and caresses the steering wheel. Another low, sexually loaded groan rumbles from his lips. I shouldn’t like the way the deep timbre warms my blood, or the way he slouches in a very male way that draws the eye to his hips... but I do.
I caught him once sitting like that in the student common area at school. He was on a couch with a male friend. A cheerleader stood before Zeke, giggling and tapping her pom-pom on his nose. He darted his hand forward and flicked up her skirt.
How annoying,I’d thought.He deserves a smack in the head for being rude to her.
But the cheerleader loved it. She sat on his lap. How naive I was. He’s always been a player. I guess I was just another in his game.
“Get in,” he says, still gazing lovingly at the steering wheel.
“But I booked an Uber.”
“Cancel it.”
“Zeke, we don’t—”
