“O…kay.”
116
Emory
He seriously looked like he didn’t want to talk about it. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business. I mean, of course I am curious about it, but you don’t owe me anything.” I meant every word.
“Listen, like I said. I like you. I don’t want you to be scared of me, because I promise, your imagination is conjuring up much worse than the truth.” He picked up his coffee and took a big swig from it.
Truth was, I wasn’t really scared of him. I was too attracted to him to be afraid. He was scary in how aggressive he was, but a part of me liked that. It was why I was still single. I was tired of meeting and going on dates with dudes who were total pussies. I didn’t mind a guy taking charge every once in a while, especially in the bedroom. Most of the pansies I’d gone on dates with were afraid to even hold my hand. And don’t get me started on how lazy they were in the bedroom. I’d just stopped dating for the past year because I was so sick of it.
But this guy? He was rough around the edges, sure, but grabbing my hair and telling me what I wanted? Hot as hell… panty-melting. Of course, I’d had to give him some sass back, because it was just who I was. If we ever ended up in the bedroom, though, I’d let him do whatever the hell he wanted to me. Well, within reason. I did have a few boundaries.
I stared at him, admiring his strong, stubbly jaw, his dark hair, and his cool-colored bluish eyes that were actually more gray than blue. And as I raked my gaze over the tattoos that covered his hands and arms, I could see some poking up onto his neck, and I was interested to hear what he had to say.
“A few years ago, my mom got sick. I never knew my dad growing up, so it had always just been me, my brother, and my ma. My brother’s one of those house-in-the-suburbs with two-point-five kids type. Works a nine-to-five job. Real straight shooter. He was helping out with Mom’s medical bills a little, but he has a family and a mortgage, ya know?”
“Cancer?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, the fast, aggressive type.”
I cringed. Cancer was so horrible. “Go on,” I encouraged softly.
“An opportunity came up for me to make some really fast cash. All I had to do was drive a car, provided to me, I might add, over the Mexican border into Texas, and I’d get paid five-grand.”
I swallowed hard. I’d watched way too many Netflix shows to know where this was going. “There were drugs in the car.” I didn’t ask but stated.
He nodded. “Yes, and I knew there were. I’m not stupid. I own that. Drug dogs at the border checkpoint detected the meth hidden in the gas tank. I was arrested immediately. I was only twenty-four at the time. Did six years with the feds. My cellie hooked me up with the club when I got out. They actually helped me get on my feet. They’re my family now. I owe them a lot. So, I do security on rowdy nights, help keep the drunk assholes from getting out of line. It’s the least I could do.”
I thought about what he’d said and replied, “Must have been a lot of meth. Six years seems excessive for a first offense.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Well, first off, it wasn’t my first offense, but it was my first felony. Remember what the cop said back there?”
I thought back to him commenting on a warrant from 13 years ago. “Oh yeah, you were eighteen.”
“Yeah, stole some dirt bikes with some friends. We actually abandoned the bikes when we were done joyriding, but someone ratted on us. I had a warrant out. They mailed the summons to my old address. Had no idea until I got pulled over for running a stop sign a few months later. Arrested and spent the weekend in county lockup. That was fun,” he ended dryly.
“Yikes. Troubled youth and all that,” I replied, actually interested in his story.
The server brought our food and asked us if we needed anything else. We said no. I immediately cut into my omelet with the side of my fork. I was starving.
“That’s not why I got six years, though. I had a nine-millimeter pistol under the seat, you know, for protection. I knew Mexico could be dangerous in spots. Had no idea the feds tacked on more time if you even have a gun on you during a drug crime.”
“Ouch,” I replied, cringing.
“It is what it is. I’ve learned my lesson. Straight and narrow for me from here on out. I even pay my taxes quarterly to stay on the up-and-up. The government does not play, and I want no part in being on their bad side ever again.” He grabbed a piece of bacon off his plate and chomped on it.
“But you have a current warrant, that cop said,” I threw in before biting my lip, hoping that wasn’t too forward.
He looked like he was disappointed I’d brought it up, but answered, “Bar fight. Dude pressed charges when I threw him out of the club. I may or may not have, ah, broken his arm.”
“I see,” was all I could think to reply with. I picked up my coffee. “Well, thank you for sharing with me. I can’t say my past is all that exciting.”
He
