Fuck, I wanted her. “You have no idea.”
Moments passed between us as we stared at each other in silence. That shock of red hair grabbed my attention again, and I couldn’t help but wonder who, or what, happened in her life to cause it. Nobody just did shit like that on purpose. Candy-red colored hair didn’t just happen. It pissed me off that I even cared. I wasn’t a good guy. I wasn’t even a decent guy. I didn’t ask girls their names, much less their stories.
“So, that’s it?” she asked, chin tilted and one hand resting on a cocked hip.
Shit, had she been talking to me this whole time? “What’s it?” I asked, trying to seem bored.
“You really have no name?”
I shot her a pointed look, mentally slamming the door on her inquisition. “Danger works. I like it.”
I did. I liked it too damn much. And I hated nicknames. I thought they were childish and reserved for those annoying assholes who sat on the same side of the booth at restaurants. The ones who called each other ‘honey’ and ‘baby’ and fed each other bites of their own food and switched plates in the middle of dinner.
“Of course, you do,” she snorted in an unladylike, but oddly sexy way.
The bar started to get crowded, as patrons shoved bills toward her and demanded drinks. I watched them curiously, wondering what she’d do. To my pleasure, she held up a finger to them and kept her eyes on me.
Those eyes were what did it. Those pale blue eyes that tried to hide exhaustion exposed by the dark circles underneath them and sadness well beyond her years. They sucked me in and broke one of my cardinal rules. “What about your name?”
“Hey, what about my drink? You think you could take a break from your date over there to do your job, honey?”
Her eyes flickered relief for a moment, then darkened, becoming void of emotion. “Duty calls. Glad I could meet your expectations, Danger.” She reached for the shot glass I held, and I grabbed her hand, my out-of-character reaction surprising both of us. Hesitating a moment, she lifted her eyes and met mine in a battle of wills.
I could tell we were both at war with what would happen next; I contemplated the consequences of fucking one of Emilio’s employees. He seemed fond of this one, and the moment it was over, I’d have no choice but to have her fired.
Shifting her weight, she made the decision for both of us when she released her hand from my grip and pointed toward the douchebag two seats down, now glaring at us. “Let me know if you want another.”
As she poured the asshole that cock blocked me a gin and tonic, I pulled three, twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and placed them face down on the bar. The exorbitant tip wasn’t a handout, as I suspected she’d think after I left. I generally enjoyed her company. Which was exactly why I had to leave and never talk to her again.
She called me dangerous. If I was dangerous, she was fucking deadly.
My life revolved around the cartel, stray pussy, and money. I had no time for complications of any other kind, and candy hair was a walking, talking complication. I knew in one touch, I had no business being near her. A woman like that could cause the destruction of a man like me.
While she argued with the dickbag about the amount of gin she shorted him, I slipped around the long end of the bar, through the kitchen, and out the back door. I cut myself off like a junkie jonesing for his next hit of short shorts and a-size-too-small tank top. After tonight, I knew I couldn’t afford the distraction.
Perfect drink or not, I was done with that girl.
So, I gave my business to every other bar in Houston and walked out of them pissed off and sober as hell for two months before I caved. However, I never returned to a barstool. Always sitting at one of the tables, I allowed young, annoying waitresses to serve me while I watched her flirt with a new man month after month until it got to be too much to take and stopped going altogether.
Some women were storms who blew into a man’s life and ruined his plans for the night. That woman was a hurricane who uprooted and flooded the very foundation of everything a man thought he knew.
Chapter Three
Present Day
BRODY
After a third pencillead broke on the Norris case deposition, I snapped the wood in half and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and skidded across the floor as I ran a sweaty palm across my unshaven chin.
When did shit get so out of control?
Everything piled on top of me, forcing my head underwater and my hand to the devil. I’d had no intention on bending to Val Carrera’s will, but he’d backed me into a corner. I’d lived in Houston long enough to know that a corner was the last place anyone wanted to be with the Carrera Cartel.
Working in the judicial system, I saw—first hand—what happened to men who crossed him. One day they were in our custody, the next, pieces of them fell out of a body bag. The constituents of Harris County elected me assistant district attorney to protect the community from men like Carrera. If they knew how much of my soul I’d sold to further my career, I wouldn’t have to worry about the election. I’d be lucky to bus tables at the Waffle House for the rest of my life.
“Harcourt, you coming to lunch, or what?”
Glancing up from my curled fists, I settled a hardened glare on one of the prosecuting attorneys from the fourth floor. Dressed in a crooked blue tie and a missing suit jacket, he held my office door open as if I’d extended an invitation. His sloppy appearance grated on my last nerve, and my fingers twitched, searching my desk for another pencil to break.
