Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(5)

My thoughts might show in my expression, because she turns abruptly away.

“I’m going to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in the bar in ten minutes. And don’t touch anything on your way out, jarhead.”

She heads into the bathroom. I call out after her, “Don’t put clothes on for my sake. Make yourself comfortable, sweet—”

The bathroom door slams shut with a window-rattling bang.



Half an hour later, I’m about to go back upstairs and pound on Tabby’s door when she walks into the bar like she owns the f*cking place. She stands in the entrance, looking around with her nose in the air. The old guy on the stool next to me spots her and does a double take that might cause him whiplash.

I have to put a hand over my mouth to hide my smile.

I’ll start from the feet up.

Black stilettos that don’t say “f*ck me” as much as “f*ck you.” Bare legs, tattoo of a green fairy decorating the inside of her left ankle. Black leather miniskirt with suspenders attached. A midriff-baring sleeveless T-shirt the color of Barbie puke that has, stretched out of shape over the fullness of her breasts, the words “Deal With It.” Belly-button piercing with some dangly stuff, like a piece of jewelry. Colorful left arm tattoo sleeve that ends at her wrist. Studded necklace that looks exactly like a dog collar. Hair the color of a fire engine, drawn into a sleek ponytail that shows off aristocratic cheekbones and a long, elegant neck.

Over her right arm is slung a white purse with a giant logo of a cartoon cat on the flap. Because nothing shouts I’m an adult with serious emotional baggage better than Hello motherf*cking Kitty.

Tabby spots me. Her lips twist into something that’s probably disgust. I chuckle, watching as she makes her way across the bar toward me while a dozen heads turn in her wake.

Damn. Knows how to use those hips.

She stops next to me and drops her bag on the bar with a hostile thunk.

“You could’ve used this newfangled invention called a phone to contact me instead of wasting your time coming all the way to DC, jarhead.”

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in all your glory, sweet—”

She gives me a look that could wilt crops.

I amend it to, “Tabby.”

The bartender, a dude with one of those pansy-ass overgroomed mustaches that are all the rage and I f*cking hate, walks up smiling.

“What can I get you?” he asks Tabby’s tits.

I growl, “Johnny Walker Blue Label and a strong length of rope.”

The bartender frowns at me. “Rope?”

I lean closer to him. “For a noose.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He laughs—sounds like he’s coughing—and scurries off.

Beside me, Tabby sighs. “Charming as ever, I see.”

“Asshole was being disrespectful,” I mutter, glaring at his retreating back.

There’s a shrug in her voice. “Men can’t help themselves, Connor. Boobs are your gender’s Kryptonite. I don’t take it personally.”

Still bristling, I look at her. “Well, I do. You could be mine, for all that * knows.”

She arches one elegant eyebrow. “Sure. In an alternate universe where I don’t have an IQ approaching two hundred points and you’re not a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal with a god complex and one too many pairs of cargo pants, I suppose that could be a possibility.”

It’s my turn to raise a brow. “You’re in no position to diss my wardrobe, sweetheart. The f*ck is that thing dangling from your belly button, a fishing lure? You trolling for largemouth bass?”

I suspect she wants to laugh. Her lips press together as if to keep a rogue grin at bay. Instead, she says coolly, “Hey, I’m not the one who always dresses like he’s going to a military funeral. You realize they make clothes in colors other than black, right?”

“I’ll wear something other than black when they make something darker.”

The bartender returns with my scotch. His gaze firmly affixed to the bar, he politely asks Tabby, “And what may I get for you, miss?”

She shoots me a sour look. I grin.

“Ice water with lemon, please.”

“Ice water?” I ask once the bartender has left.

Something odd crosses her face, there but quickly gone. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Lemme guess. Vegan?”

She curls her lip. “Please. I eat so much meat, I’m practically a meatatarian. And what does drinking ice water have to do with being vegan?”

“The f*ck should I know?”

She inspects my face for a moment, and then says, “One of these days, I’ll ask what you have against the words ‘what’ and ‘how.’ Until then, why don’t you tell why you’re here.”

She slides onto the stool next to me, crosses her long legs, props her chin on her hand, and waits.

I can almost feel the old guy behind me having a heart attack. Must be staring at her legs. They’re pretty f*cking spectacular, if I do say so myself.

“Got a client,” I say. “High level. With a delicate situation. Knew you’d gone freelance after Victoria, heard through the grapevine you were killin’ it. Today proves I heard right.”

She tries not to look smug about that last part but fails. “What’s the situation?”