Page 9 of Cherry Beats

“Like she’s going to reach under that till, shove her hand through a secret trapdoor, reach for your balls, and twist them until you’re singing Soprano?”

I sure as shit looked up then.

“Hey, Cherry.” Presley winked.

“She scares you, too?” Clive asked, holding his glass to his lips like he had to wait for his Guinness to cool down.

“Hey! I’m not scary.” I scowled.

Clive huffed out a grumble of disagreement before he slapped Presley on the shoulder and turned to leave.

“Am I really that bad?” I asked Presley. I was going for nonchalant, but my heart was ‘chalant’ as fuck, suddenly head banging against my ribcage like there was a Korn! tune for it to get nasty with.

“Only to cowards.”

“Are you Team Fear or Team Courage, Mr West?”

“I’m a fucking hero, baby.”

“Of course. And what’s the hero of Hollings Hill drinking tonight?”

“Tequila.”

“Yikes. Your date going that bad?” I asked, trying to look around him.

Tonight, he was with a flaming redhead. Not fake red like mine. This woman had the kind of hair that looked like it would burn to touch. The kind I’d always loved the most. She sat with her back ramrod straight, her delicate arms placed on the top of the table, and her fingers entwined. Whoever she was, she was beautiful, prim, and very proper.

“I see you have an upgrade tonight. A real princess, as opposed to our beloved Gerty.”

“Quit staring at her. She’ll think you’re jealous.”

“I am. I’m raging with envy over her posture. She looks like she could balance a full teacup on her head all the way to China.”

Presley laughed quietly, and I could feel his eyes burning into my skin. That wasn’t just a metaphor, either. It was literal. Wherever his eyes locked in on me, my skin burned, flashing like a neon sign that would probably sayYes! You have my permission to touch right here.

“You ever thought of doing stand-up comedy, Cherry?”

I reached for two shot glasses beneath the bar, placed them between us, and then spun around to grab the bottle of tequila from the back shelf. I’d worn tight—super tight—leather trousers that night. I knew I had a good arse. It was one of the many benefits of walking absolutely everywhere and never sitting down. My butt cheeks could crack cashew nuts.

Paw nuts, too.

My smile broke free when I glanced through the mirror on the back shelf and saw Presley’s eyes lingering over my leather-clad derriere.

Ding, ding! Leather is a winner. Never taking these babies off… unless it’s for him when he strips me naked.

“You want to take a picture, Presley?”

His eyes shot up to mine through the mirror, and that seductive bad boy, dimple-inducing smirk of his broke free.

“Would you mind? It would make excellent wank-bank material.”

“That’s not at all inappropriate,” I quipped.

“Those pants are very inappropriate,” he bit back, while I turned around with the bottle in my hand. “Jesus, Cherry. I’m on a date with another woman, here. What are you wearing those booty huggers for?”

“BecauseIlike them, andIdress forme. Not for some guy who can’t seem to stay away from this place. It’s not my fault you like what you see even when it’s not for sale.”

That was a lie. Almost everything I said against him was a lie. I was for sale. He could take my soul for a kiss.

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