BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(44)

He looked me over and then smirked.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and nodded toward his beer. “Got any more of those?”

He chuckled. “Be right back.”

He returned with four beers in a bowl of ice. After handing me one of them, he sat down. “You prepared to go the distance with this girl?”

I twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and bent it between my thumb and forefinger. “What do you mean?”

“What if something develops between both of you? You going to be able to lie to her about the job for the rest of your life?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Goose,” I snapped back. “We’re not getting married.”

He tilted his beer bottle toward me. “She’s on your mind, no arguing that.”

“She’s got a pussy like a vise,” I said. “She’s fun to fuck.”

“They’re all fun to fuck.”

“She’s different.”

He rocked his chair onto the back legs. “Here we go. Now comes the truth.”

“No, Goddammit. Her pussy’s different. It’s tight as fuck. Feels like…” I took a drink of my beer. Explaining it would be impossible. “It just feels different.”

He balanced his chair on the legs and lifted his chin slightly. “How many chicks you think you’ve dicked in your day?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

I shrugged. “Fifty.”

“She better’n all of ‘em?”

“Oh, hell yes.”

He leaned forward until the chair’s front legs came down onto the deck. “So much so that you can’t compare any of them to her?”

“No comparison.”

He looked me in the eyes for a long moment, and then nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me. Brother Cash finds out, and he’s liable to kill you both, though.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your eyes are like an open book. All they take is a little studying. This girl’s more than a piece of pussy.”

I looked away and shook my head. “Afraid not.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “And you might start believing it. But you didn’t come here to get advice.”

“Oh yeah?” I turned to face him. “Why’d I come here?”

He tilted the neck of his bottle toward me. “To get permission.”





TWENTY-SEVEN - Andy





Baker was at my apartment for the first time, and we were simply talking. About absolutely nothing. Having a man in my presence and not fucking him somehow stroked my ego. As a result, my self-confidence crept higher and higher with each passing minute.

I poured a glass of tea and slid it across the island. “So, you don’t think it looks empty?”

Seated at the other side of the bar on one of my new stools, he reached for the glass. “That wasn’t what I said. I said it doesn’t look bad. But, it’s empty. There’s no denying it.”

I poured another glass. “It doesn’t look bad, though?”

He glanced over his shoulder and then shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

Behind him, the two pieces of furniture made it appear that someone was minutes from moving out. From my vantage point it looked bad.

I gazed blankly into the large open room, “I can’t wait until I can buy more.”

“Did you have more?” he asked.

“I did. At my apartment in Indio. It was nice. I had a sectional, the red couch, a loveseat, and that blue chair. And, some end tables and stuff. I got a lot of it used, but it was all nice. Really good quality. I had to sell it to pay bills. That stuff’s all I’ve got left.”

He twisted his glass of tea in a circle, watching it as it turned in his hand. “After you lost your job?”

I studied him as he studied his glass. “Yeah. Finding a job’s not as easy as you might think. A college education doesn’t guarantee anything.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and then looked at me. “What’s your favorite color?”

I let out a laugh. “Is this a trick question?”

He stroked his beard. “No.”

I laughed. Not because what he said was funny, but because it was contradictory to what he’d said only a week earlier. His expression changed to one of wonder. I caught my breath and explained. “You said a week or so ago that a person’s favorite color didn’t matter. What they detested mattered.”

He chuckled. “You’re perceptive.”

“If it wasn’t important to you, you wouldn’t have said it.” I raised my glass. “I pay attention.”

He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “What color furniture do you detest?”

“Yellow,” I blurted.

“Is that it?”

“Pretty much.”

His eyebrows raised. “Green?”

“I’m good with green.”

“Lime green?”

“If it was a fun piece of furniture, it’d be cool.”

“Tangerine?”

“Same answer.”

He studied his tea for a moment, and then met my gaze. “Red?”