Page 3 of Texas Hold Em'
Gritting my teeth, I wrenched the door open and stepped out into the dimly lit hall. It was hot and stuffy as always, and a bead of sweat formed on my upper lip as I locked the door behind me. I marched down the hall and out the emergency exit door, where my bike was parked beside my beat up old Chevelle. The damn car needed a lot of work. She still ran, albeit poorly, and I had grand plans of fixing her up when this mess with Bates was done.
I hopped on my bike, a three-year-old Iron 883, and used my heel to release the kickstand. The engine rumbled low and menacing like a predator in the wild. I’d only owned the bike for about six months and liked the ride. My older bike had been a larger, heavier monster, and I liked how the smaller bike handled. William had taken it for a spin a few weeks before he died and claimed he wanted one for himself.
He never got around to it.
I opened up the throttle and tore out of the back lot behind the old warehouse building. The back tire kicked up gravel before the tires hit asphalt and made short work of the long road back into town.
With any luck, Carrie wouldn’t entertain herself in my absence by adding throw pillows to my couch or using old beer bottles as vases for fresh-cut flowers.
CHAPTER 2
CARRIE
Jameson’s shower still smelled like his pine and glacier ice bodywash, whatever glacier ice was supposed to smell like. I had to admit, it smelled pretty good. Soon it began to smell like my products—like my coconut conditioner, cucumber and mint exfoliator, citrus shaving cream. When I was done, I dried off, twisted my wet hair into a coiled bun on top of my head, and slathered my body with moisturizer.
I padded around his apartment in my bra and underwear for the next half hour. I’d already spent three days there, but I was still getting my bearings and learning where everything was.
I had to admit, his place was nicer than I expected. The cinderblock walls were a bit drab, and the high-up warehouse windows, which could only be opened by crank poles hanging down the walls, left something to be desired, but his place was clean. Organized. Purposeful.
Nothing was out of place.
Everything had a home. His TV remotes sat in a stand on his coffee table. He kept his empty beer bottles in the box they came in, tucked under his kitchen sink beside his garbage can. His kitchencupboards were fairly empty. He didn’t own much dishware, only a handful of each item, but they too were orderly and in sensical places.
The whole place felt a little lonesome.
Maybe he likes it this way,I thought as I got dressed to go get coffee and bagels.
I needed something that wasn’t oatmeal, beer, or instant coffee, which were the only options I could spy in the cupboards or fridge.. I blamed Jameson’s compulsive smoking habit for ruining his tastebuds.
At the front door, I bent over to lace up my sneakers. “And I blame my compulsive need to win for landing me in a biker’s one-man den,” I grumbled.
For some girls, it might have been a dream come true.
For some girls, sharing an apartment with an undeniably sexy bad boy might have made their year, or hell, their entire life. It would be this shining moment of rebellion they wrote about in journals for years to come. Perhaps for some girls, they might have had the best sex of their lives while they crashed in a place like this.
But for me?
It was nothing short of cruel and unusual punishment.
Admittedly, I liked a good bad boy as much as the next girl, but I preferred them in fiction, not real life. If I wanted to hook up with a leather-wearing, Harley-riding, cigarette-puffing hottie, I wouldn’t have pursued a career as a Ranger.
I straightened, unlocked the front door, and stepped out into the humid hall that smelled like a back alley behind a McDonald’s. I sighed. “If you wanted to hook up with any guy, you wouldn’t have become a Ranger.”
It was true.
My career choice had torpedoed my romantic life. Men had no interest in dating a woman who wore a beige uniform and a Ranger’s badge seven days a week. The hat didn’t help my case, either. The gun on my hip might have made some guys a little tight in the pants, but most overlooked me entirely.
Unless it was a Friday night and one of my friends in Austinactually managed to get me out of the house for drinks. My dearest friend, Kaylee, managed such success once every six or so weeks. Most of my Friday nights were spent analyzing cases from the comfort of my own sofa with a glass of merlot. And if I wasn’t at home, I was out in my squad car keeping my city safe. It was just how I was wired.
Kaylee said my badge gave me too much permission to isolate myself and not try when it came to men.
I wasn’t sure how true that was.
I left through the emergency exit door at the end of the hall. Jameson, or Tex as everyone in the Devil’s Luck seemed to call him, had offered to let me drive his hunk of shit Chevelle if I needed to run errands while I was gone. He didn’t seem too thrilled about the idea of me leaving on my own. He said he thought it would be best if I laid low for the most part and kept my head down. He was probably right, but every now and then a girl had to get out, stretch her legs, and get some real carbs that had a hell of a lot more calories than a bowl of oatmeal.
I slid into the front seat of the old car and stuck the keys in the ignition. The leather seats were full of cracks and tears, and exposed foam along the seam of the seat smelled like my old gymnastics gym. The car sputtered before lurching forward and the radio suddenly came on, blasting a rock song so loud I nearly leapt out of my skin.
I turned the volume all the way down and turned onto the two-lane road that led back into Reno.
