Page 70 of Redemption (Brazen Bulls Birthright 1)

She put her hand on his chest and held him off. “Hello. Please tell me I caught you in the middle of dressing and you intend to put on a shirt.”

He gave her a rakish grin and rubbed his hands over his bare chest. “This distracting you?”

Yes, in fact. The guy was fucking hot. And fucking arrogant. “I’m not here to play, Eight. You want to talk, so I’m here. Put a fucking shirt on.”

His first reaction was subtle, no more than a tensing around his eyes, but she saw she’d struck meat. Then he covered with a chuckle. “Don’t be so uptight, Marce. Come on in.”

He opened his door and went in. Marcella followed.

They’d stepped straight into his living room, which was decorated—to use the word loosely—in classic Eight Ball: plain hardwood floors, basic white walls, plain white miniblinds over the windows, an unadorned fireplace that seemed to be made of cinderblock.

The furniture consisted of a pub-style black leather love seat, a matching black leather recliner, and, no doubt one of his most prized possessions, a three-seat theater-style sofa, the kind that was really three recliners, complete with cupholders. Facing that was a massive television on the wall and a long chrome-and-glass case holding a large assortment of electronics. Matching chrome-and-glass end tables sat at each side of the bro-style recliner sofa, each with a chrome gooseneck lamp. The only other light in the room was the dome in the ceiling fan.

Hanging over the sofa, like a deer-head trophy, was a set of motorcycle handlebars. The only other art on the walls was a Brazen Bulls logo painted on a rustic wood slab and a framed Sturgis poster from the 2014 rally. And small black speakers bolted to the corners of the walls, where they met the ceiling.

The guy did not have a wide variety of interests. However, the room was clean, and the place smelled faintly of Pine-Sol. Had he cleaned up for her?

Hanging over the back of the recliner was a t-shirt. Marcella tried not to watch him pull it on, the way the muscles in his sides and belly flexed with the movement, but she didn’t quite manage it.

“Can I get you something to drink? There’s fresh coffee.”

“Sure, coffee’s good.”

With a nod, he headed toward the doorway leading deeper into his house. Not knowing what else to do, Marcella followed him.

They went through an empty room that must have been meant as a dining room —plain floors, white walls, bare miniblinds over the windows—and into the kitchen.

It was small and basic, a totally white galley kitchen, but also clean. On the counter were a few dishes drying in a drainer, a couple small appliances, a knife block, and a black crock of matching cooking utensils, the kind of set Walmart sold for about fifteen bucks.

On the fridge, held there with four small, round, plain black magnets, was Ajax’s Top Ten list.

Marcella studied that piece of paper for a minute. He’d put it on the fridge, like a father proud of his son’s work.

Touched deeply by that simple, mundane gesture, she turned to Eight. His back was to her as he prepared their coffee. Should she say something? She wanted to.

In the end, she didn’t. There was too much chance he’d feel exposed in some way and turn it into a joke to save face. Instead of letting him ruin this feeling, she moved on.

Through the kitchen was a small breakfast area, containing a round oak table in a basic country style and four matching chairs. That room was obviously at the corner of the house; it had two double windows on two walls. The miniblinds there were open, and the room was bright and sunny. The view was of a warped cedar fence at one window, and at the other, a back yard badly in need of weeding and seeding.

Marcella stood at the back window. “This is a real cute house, but it needs some work. You’re the trashy neighbor, Eight. You know that, right?”

He came up behind her and held a heavy white mug over her shoulder. As she took it, he said, “Nobody’s complained.”

She laughed. “Baby, look at you. Who’s gonna get in your face?”

He laughed, too. “Like I said, nobody’s complained.”

Sipping her coffee—Eight made great coffee and had fixed hers exactly right—she turned and faced him. “So, you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

They had a lot to work out, but she couldn’t say she reallywantedto talk. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Okay, so … you want to sit here, or … in the living room?” He had that confused, vulnerable look about him again. Marcella wished he’d stop that. It made her feel too much.

The breakfast table seemed like the safer choice. A little less comfortable, a little more distant. She pulled out the nearest chair and sat.

Eight put his hand on the back of the chair closest to her, as if he meant to pull it out and sit, but then he paused. “Wait. Hold on a sec.”

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