Page 3 of Torched Spades
“As long as it takes.”
“Owen…” I say sharply.
He sighs. “Six months.”
“Two.”
“Five.”
“Three.”
Holmes scrapes a hand down his face. “Four and that’s the best I can do. Don’t push me, Johnny. I mean it.”
Gritting my teeth, I jerk out a nod. “Fine. But I suggest you keep your word on all other fronts,” I warn.
His stony expression gives nothing away, but I don’t need to see fear to sense it. Owen knows there’s only so long a man like me can be cornered before he strikes. My transfer agreement wasn’t a one-sided deal. If I find out he’s not upholding his end, I’ll burn Providence to the ground.
Starting with him.
Neither of us speaks again as I storm out of his office and slam the door. “This is bullshit!” I roar, not giving a damn who hears me. With as many conflicting thoughts as I have zipping around in my head, maybe I really do need a fucking psychiatrist.
Go back in there and knock his teeth out.
Pussy, you caved to Napoleon Nutbag.
Four months for all you’ve sacrificed?
By the time I make it to the main floor, I can’t take it anymore. Half an hour of restrained rage explodes, and I drive my fist into the cinder block wall. Which, hindsight being twenty-twenty, wasn’t the best idea—especially when hearing my knuckles crack.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I freeze as a woman moves in behind me.Fuck, her voice sounds like melted sin. Unsettling and addictive, like sharp nails drawing blood down bare skin.
“Go away,” I grit out through a rough exhale.
“Yeah, I would, but I’m pretty sure destruction of county property is a revolving door.”
Jesus, the more I ignore her, the more she talks.“A revolving…?” Then it hits me. This woman thinks I’m on hiatus from an ankle bracelet. Turning, I take an intimidating step toward her. “Sweetheart, I’m on edge, not on trial.” I meet her gaze, expecting to see fear. Instead, a pair of icy blue eyes stare at me from behind thin, wire-rimmed glasses.
Damn.Bait and switch.
The voice may be melted sin, but the wrapping is frozen virtue.
The woman in front of me is as uptight as they come. Her blonde hair is pulled back in one of those low buns, revealing a fresh face void of any makeup. But that’s just the prelude. That polyester business suit she’s wearing should be brought up on charges because it’s suffocating the shit out of any curves she may have.
Still, there’s a presence about her. A raw sensuality that makes no damn sense. Her confidence doesn’t line up with her appearance, and that pinched expression doesn’t lend itself to much evaluation.
A discreet clearing of a throat knocks me out of my thoughts and back into the bleak hallway where she’s still staring at me.
“Of course…” She props her elbow on her cocked hip, a red apple tucked in her hand. “Because everyone wanders courthouses punching concrete.”
“It’s cinder block.”
A hint of a smile tugs at her lips before they part, and she sinks her teeth into the apple, mumbling, “My mistake.”
My brilliant comeback is to glare at her.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t tolerate such disrespect, but something’s twisting my insides—mostly irritation—but also inexplicable interest. Nothing about this woman is my type, but something about the way she’s licking the juice off her lip hits like a punch to the dick.
