“Almost. Just waiting on the garlic bread,” Krew announced, then turned to me. The tension evident in his stance moments before was gone. “Do you want to set the plates?”
I opened my mouth to tell him yes, except Decker butted in. “I’ll do it.” His brisk tone and sharp stare were aimed at me now.
At least he’s looking at you.
He grabbed three plates from the open shelving by the window, and placed two at one end of the table and the third dish on the other side. Not once did he talk or glance again my way. I knew what he was doing and it was pissing me off even more.
Instead of pasta, Decker wanted me to eat crow. And I would, for being such a bitch to Krew. I could give less than a shit about Decker. He’d made it clear that he was done with me.
I ignored the knot of pain corded tight in my chest at that notion, and stood there, unblinking, as I watched Decker set the table.
His cold, calculating blue eyes—eyes I’d once thought beautiful, had a threatening glint in them. And it hit me then that this man—this Decker Moss, was dangerous.
When we were young, I had never seen the vicious side of Decker. Sure, the dark wickedness of his temper had been doled out from time to time to the kids that had deserved it. And to his asshole father.
Decker’s comebacks were cruel—but again, never aimed at me… until our confrontation in the bedroom three days ago.
The impulse to scream at him grew with my frustration. Now, whenever we faced off, every word out of his mouth would feel like a balancing act—one misstep and I could either stand my ground or lose my footing entirely. I was poised on the knife’s edge, waiting.
Decker’s eyes sharpened as I watched him watching me. My heart kicked up as they pinned me in place, daring me to say something. This silent confrontation between us gave me a shot of adrenalin, and I sucked in a breath.
This is what you wanted, Regi.
But had I really? Had I wanted to be ignored? The longer I stood there, the faster my resolve crumbled to dust and I looked away.
“You know what, I’ll take my plate upstairs,” I told Krew, picking up the dish and walking it over to him.
“No, I’d like you to stay. Decker, stop being a dick, and sit down,” Krew barked over his shoulder.
“What? She wanted to left alone. She doesn’t want to talk to us. I’m giving her what she asked for.” Decker shrugged before placing silverware next to the two plates and three glasses.
I clamped my teeth tight, shame burning through me. Decker was right—I said those words, but they were lies. Lies to protect myself from them—from the hurt I’d soon feel once this whole contract murder was over and we part ways.
Although, what I really wanted to do right now was to chuck my dish at Decker’s head. Then maybe I’d get my old Decker back. Since the plate belonged to his friend, I held on to it.
“Hey.” Krew nudged me with his arm. “Grab the garlic bread and the water, will yah?”
With reluctance, I juggled my plate, the bread and the water bottle, carried them to the table and positioned them close to where I was sitting. Krew placed the large bowl of spaghetti and meatballs in the middle of the table and sat down. I poured myself some water and passed the bottle to Krew.
Decker’s eyes narrowed, but the familiar smirk on his devilish face cut through my inner turmoil and I was able to relax. We each took our respective places at the table and began eating in silence.
The food was fantastic. I didn’t know Krew could cook. Looking back, my only real memories of the boys were of those lazy days hanging out at the Honey Pot near the reservoir. We talked and laughed the day away, swam at Lions Pool, or just drove around, happy to be together.
To rectify my mistake, I needed to stop fighting with them, and talk. Even be honest… to a point.
“Thanks for cooking, Krew. It’s delicious,” I said and dug into another meatball.
“You’re welcome.” Krew grinned. As he wiped sauce from a corner of his lickable lips, a flutter in my belly sent tingles along my skin.
Get a grip, Regi. Don’t look at them. My eyes dropped to my plate and breathed.
“So, Krew. I work in a salon. Decker’s a hitman, what do you do?” I asked and took a sip of the water. Decker snorted and my eyes shot to his face. “What’s your deal?”
“Nothing,” he said and shoveled in a forkful of pasta.
“No, I really want to know. You get pissed that I don’t talk, and when I do, you give me attitude.”
“Attitude?” Decker’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Okay. Here’s the truth. When we ask you to talk to us, you shut up like a clam—you don’t let us in. When you want to talk about our lives, it’s okay.” Decker’s knuckles on his right hand were turning white from gripping the fork so tightly.
