Page 15 of Savage Daddies
Her feet sit diagonal in a pair of open-toed high heels that reveal pedicured feet, and a pair of golden earrings swing every time she moves her head. They twinkle in the sun.
I know real gold when I see it.
“Do you think…” Her hands fiddle with the pantsuit buttons. She has them manicured, fingernails matching pink with her toes. High maintenance. Very high maintenance. No chips ruin them, so it’s clear she doesn’t use her hands for much other than shopping.
What does she do for work?
“Would it be OK if I came in for a while?” She looks over her shoulder as if to check that the coast is clear. Upon turning back to us, she flashes a smile, this one wider than the small, forced ones she’s been shooting us.
“Of course.” I say the words quicker than a fucking dog says yes to being offered a bone. “Come inside.”
Wrangler shoots me a look. I can see why. Welcoming an upper-class hottie into our lives complicates matters, especially for lover boy Wrangler who branded himself celibate at nineteen years old after seeing his girlfriend drop dead right in front of his eyes.
Seventeen years, it’s been.
Only once has he ever broken that vow.
It was almost four years ago, at some masquerade that Meredith’s husbands invited us to. Masquerade girl was the only other woman I’ve met who paused the very hum of the earth.
Until now.
This girl sits tied for first with the other.
And it’s bad.
So bad.
The way she looks into my eyes stirs trouble. Women don’t look at me likethat.Not even clubhouse whores who look at pretty much anything with a dick and heartbeat. This woman has class. The glossed-red hair could make her a model, but models don’t even have this poise.
Fuck, I gotta stop making things about us. This is abouther.
I know a victim when I see one.
Winding a hand around her lower back makes me feel something, and her feminine scent whirls into my nose.
But I gotta let go. Hands that’ve been used to murder and deceive and steal shouldn’t be placed on women like her who have done no wrong in their lives.
“Step up, darling.” I usher her up onto the veranda. Her heels clack on the wooden planks. “Take it easy, I don’t want you to trip.” My hand snakes around her waist again of its own accord. It needs to find some self-restraint. “I’m sorry about the mess, too. We weren’t expecting guests.”
“In the middle of the desert, you wouldn’t be expecting any.” She takes her first step indoors, eyes surveying the pool tables and the bar over in the corner holding a two-year supply of beer that could be polished off in two days. Thankfully, the only moving thing inside the main room is the ceiling fan, and it whirls around on a low spin creating some much-needed air.
Her gaze then veers to the American flag stitched to the wall. To the taxidermy eagle in the corner that was killed by Grizzly some years ago. Its spread, black wings span from one wall of the club to the next, casting a shadow on the wooden floor. She stares at the creature for a time, her mouth parted, and I can’t tell if she’s amazed, scared, or both, to be staring at a reimagined bird of prey that looks ready to eat her alive.
“What is this place?” She turns around to face me, her face timid.
And my head scrambles. My tongue knots together, rendering me speechless.
“A clubhouse,” answers Wrangler.
“A clubhouse for what?” She directs that question toward Poet, gaze dropping once again to survey his outfit. To her, he’s Mr. Reeves, but Poet killed that dude four years ago the second he passed initiation.
Poet’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.
“Venom Vultures,” says Wrangler.
“What is that?”
Clacking heels interrupt the conversation.
