He arches that eyebrow at me. “And?”
“And what? Was there a question in there?”
A nod, attention back on the road—I’m attempting to follow the turns he makes and the names of the roads, so I know where I am. “The story, princess.”
I roll a shoulder. “Married young. Didn’t work out. Left home to figure out what to do with myself.”
He pulls to a stop at a light, looks my way. “Leaving a lot out, feels like.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice brightly sarcastic, “like all the hard, dark, painful things I don’t want to talk about, especially with a grouchy man I don’t know.”
“Ain’t grouchy,” he mutters. “Just not a chatty Kathy.”
I cackle. “Okay, Mr. Taciturn.”
“The fuck’s that mean?”
“Taciturn?” I clarify and receive a grunt as affirmation. “Uncommunicative, unresponsive. The polar opposite of chatty and sociable. You make taciturn seem downright chatty, as a matter of fact.”
He snorts.
We drive in silence then—the interior of the Mercedes is so insulated from exterior noise it’s almost creepy. It’s nearly an anechoic chamber.
We near the motel, which, I realize, he’s not wrong about—is not in a great area. But I’ve been here almost a week and haven’t had any issues.
He parks in front of the door I indicate is mine, his head swiveling. “Don’t like this area for you, Myka.”
“I haven’t had any issues.”
He shakes his head slowly, shallowly. “Yeah, well, that’s how it works. You don’t have issues till you do.” He glances left. “Hot piece like you, alone, in a no-tell motel way the fuck off-Strip? Guarantee those dudes over there got your schedule memorized and are just waiting for a moment to nab you and do evil shit.”
“Which dudes?” I ask, following his gaze.
He points, a sharp curt gesture. “Across the street, chillin’ on the curb with the blunts.”
A Black guy, a white guy, and a Hispanic guy, sitting on a concrete parking pylon, BMX bikes near their feet, sharing something that’s not a cigarette.
“Hot piece?”
He doesn’t answer. “Show me your set up.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your room. Locks, security.”
I frown at him. “Regular motel lock and chain.”
“Said show me, Myka.”
That command again, his attention sharp, hard, relentless, brooking no hesitance.
I slide out of the SUV, fishing my key out of my clutch. Rev is behind me, hulking and massive. I unlock my door, and glance at him as I push it open. He’s staring at the guys across the street, threat exuding from his very pores.
Moments later, the three guys are on their bikes, pedaling away.
Not a word, from over a hundred yards away, he glared them into leaving. While wearing mirrored sunglasses.
Should that be sexy, or scary, or scary-sexy?
