Unattainable (Undeniable, #3)(11)

“Hey, gorgeous,” he drawled. “Long time, no see.”

“Daniel,” she repeated, dumbfounded. “Wow, you look…different.”

She ran her eyes up and down his body once more, pausing on his waistline where a police badge was clipped to his belt.

“You’re a cop?” she asked, glancing back up at his face.

He grinned. “Chief,” he said proudly.

Ellie’s eyes widened. Daniel Mooresville, the biggest dork that ever was, was not only drop-dead gorgeous but the Miles City chief of police?

“Congratulations,” she murmured, smiling up at him, although still shocked.

“Same to you,” he said. “I heard you’re teaching now?”

Ellie grimaced.

“Sort of,” she muttered. “It’s a long story.”

Daniel gestured toward Hank’s. “I just so happen to have great listening skills,” he said. “I could lend an ear, maybe buy you a drink?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Aren’t you on the clock?”

Daniel’s grin only grew. “Ellie, I’m the chief.”

What did that mean?

Ellie shook her head. “I don’t want to tie you up,” she said. “I’m sure you have more important things to be doing.”

Laughing, Daniel opened the door to the bar and made a sweeping motion with his free hand. “Ellie Tate, I’ve had a crush on you since fifth grade and I’d be honored if I could buy you a drink.”

Wow. Gorgeous and polite. And the chief of police. Had she hit the lottery?

Shaking her head and smiling, she walked past Daniel and into the bar. As the door slammed shut behind them, Hank looked up from behind the bar. He looked exactly as she remembered him—old, bald, and fat.

“Why, if it isn’t Ellie Tate!” he said, grinning. “Girl, how long’s it been since I’ve seen that pretty face of yours?” He pointed to the barstool directly in front of him. “Sit down right there and let me fix you something, sweetheart!”

As Daniel pulled out the barstool for her, she thought that maybe coming back home wasn’t the worst decision she’d ever made.

? ? ?

Feeling uncomfortable, anxious, and more than ready to get out of the big, swanky house he was currently in, Dirty began tapping his feet on the plush beige carpet beneath his booted feet.

His dirty, booted feet. On the very, very clean carpet.

Feeling his stomach start to churn, he shifted on the equally clean, equally plush, very, very white sofa he was seated on.

Dirty hated rich motherf*ckers. He hated their big houses filled with rooms too pristine to feel at home in. He hated their fancy clothes, useless elaborate trappings that made him feel like stripping his own self naked. But most of all, he hated their disapproving eyes.

Yeah, he knew what they saw. He was tall, lanky, firm but not overly muscled; he didn’t eat nearly enough to pack on any extra weight, and considering all the workouts he put himself through, the only shit left inside of him to burn was booze and muscle.

His dark brown hair was long and greasy, so greasy at times it clumped together. His face was heavily bearded by the same dark brown hair that had grown in so thick, his actual features weren’t easily distinguishable. He liked it that way. No one could see him, what he really looked like, and who he used to be.

A tiny shudder rippled through him. He couldn’t be in this house, and he couldn’t be around people like these people. He couldn’t, not without unwanted memories flooding him, making him feel disgusting, used, and…dirty.

Dirty. He was dirty. He was filthy, both inside and out. He was a hollowed-out, rotted piece of shit who should have quit breathing a long time ago yet, for some stupid f*cking reason, Deuce wouldn’t let him.

“I believe the price is acceptable,” Pamela Mooresville said, her tone every bit as hoity as everything else about her. Turning slightly in her armchair, she turned from Deuce to her husband, Mayor Norman Mooresville. “Don’t you agree, dear?”

Mooresville couldn’t have been that much older than him, Dirty guessed. He’d just turned thirty-eight and this * had to be in his midforties. But from the looks of it, the good life hadn’t been all that good to Mr. Mayor, with his gut trying to pop through his dress shirt, his chin not doubled but tripled, and his receding hairline that was unfortunately also graying.

All that Grey Poupon and caviar, Dirty surmised, that and a whole lot of being waited on his entire life.

“Price?” Mick laughed, stroking his long black-and-gray beard. “You f*ckers gotta pretty everything up, don’t ya? Why not just call it what it f*ckin’ is? A goddamn payoff.”

“A fat f*ckin’ bitch,” Tap said as he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and brought it to his lips. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out slowly. “Is still a fat f*ckin’ bitch,” he continued. “No matter which way you’re lookin’ at her.”

“We don’t smoke in here,” Pamela said slowly, eyeing first Tap, then Bucket, then him, all with distaste.

Tap grinned around his next drag. “That so?” he murmured and let the cigarette drop to the carpet. Pamela shot to her feet with a gasp at the same time the toe of Tap’s boot came down over the lit tobacco and he twisted his ankle first right, then left, grinding the cigarette out.