Page 1 of Burned in Stone
1
MERCY
“You can head out,” I call to Miguel in the kitchen. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”
“You sure, jefe?”
Devil’s Bar is dead tonight. So quiet I can hear the neon sign buzzing. Three customers in the past hour, and the last one just stumbled out, three sheets to the wind and singing off-key.
“Yeah, go home to your family.”
Cash looks up from his spot at the end of the bar, where he’s been nursing the same beer for the past hour. ‘Keeping an eye on things,’ I’m told. Most people would find having a burly member of an outlaw MC watching them work intimidating. Me? I find it oddly comforting not having to look over my shoulder all night. The last time I felt safe with a man watching me, it turned into surveillance. Cash’s watching is different. Comforting.
Maybe it’s the way his voice rumbles when he talks to his MC brothers, or how his hands dwarf the glass he’s holding. Either way, it shouldn’t feel this safe—or this distracting.
“Closing early?” he asks.
“Might as well. No point staying open for ghosts and dust bunnies.” I start wiping down tables, hyperaware of his presence. Officially, he’s around because that big development company—Summit—is still sniffing around. For months they’ve been using underhanded tactics to buy up homes and businesses. The MC’s president, Stone, wants someone keeping an eye on the bar, and somehow that someone always ends up being Cash. At least whenever I’m on shift, anyway.
He sets down his empty bottle and comes around the bar. “How about we both call it a night? I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Actually...” I pause, surprising myself with what I’m about to say. “Want to have a drink with me? A real drink, not that light beer you’ve been babysitting all night.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna drink with a biker, Mercy?”
“Only if you think you can keep up,” I retort, my lips twitching into a smile. His grin widens into something slow and dangerous. My stomach flutters, and I turn my back on him, reaching for the good stuff—a bottle of aged whiskey Kya and I keep hidden for special occasions. Or apparently, quiet nights with the club’s treasurer. “Whiskey OK?”
“Pour away, angel.” The low rumble comes from just behind me. He’s close enough that warmth seeps through my shirt.
My hands still.
What am I doing? Asking Cash to have a drink with me is just inviting trouble. But when was the last time I just... enjoyed myself? Had a drink with an attractive man without overthinking every consequence? Without that voice in my headcataloging all the ways I’m going to screw this up? That he’s going to screw me up?
Shut up,I tell it.Not tonight.
Before I can overthink it, I pour two fingers of amber liquid into a pair of heavy tumblers. His pale green eyes track my every move as I hold one out. Our knuckles brush as he takes it. A spark shoots up my arm and settles low in my belly.
“To ghosts and dust bunnies,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving mine as he lifts his glass.
“To quiet nights,” I reply, voice soft. Our glasses meet with a gentle clink. The whiskey burns down my throat, warmth blooming in its wake. Not enough to drown out my awareness of him beside me. He watches me over the rim of his glass, a smirk ghosting his lips as his hand dips into his cut.
“Wanna play?” He pulls a well-worn deck of cards from his inner pocket. The sight is so unexpected I laugh, then immediately try to swallow it back.
“What, you carry those everywhere?”
He shrugs and sets the pack on the bar. “Never know when you’ll need insurance. Or a way to kill time.” His hands move over the cards with the kind of ease that says he’s run more than a few hustles in his day.
The dog-eared deck suits its owner.
Cash is unfairly gorgeous in that rough-around-the-edges way that makes smart women stupid. Tall and muscular, dark hair kept just long enough to run your fingers through—not that I’ve thought about it. Much. His jaw carries a few days’ worth of stubble that would feel delicious against sensitive skin.
But it’s his eyes that always get me. Pale green, like sea glass. Sharp and watchful.
“What’s the game?” I ask, taking another sip of whiskey.
He fans the cards out on the bar with a practiced flick of his wrist. “How about a little five-card draw? We can make it interesting.”
“How interesting are we talking?” I raise an eyebrow, leaning my hip against the bar, trying to project a confidence I don’t entirely possess.
