Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(4)

“Lexie,” I told him, guessing that’s what he meant and not pointing out I’d already introduced myself.

“Full name,” he said then speared another sausage link.

While he bit off half, I answered, “Alexa Anne Berry.”

He chewed. He swallowed.

“Priors?” he asked and I felt my brows draw together.

“Sorry?” I asked back.

“You got a record?”

I was surprised at this question for two reasons. One, he’d used his first verb and I had convinced myself he only knew caveman-speak. Two, it was a weird question.

“No,” I answered. “No record.”

Or, at least, not one that wasn’t sealed. What could I say? There was a reason Ronnie was my boyfriend since high school, I’d been wild. It was just, back then, he wasn’t. Then I stopped being wild, he’d started and he did it better than me. I had a juvenile record but that didn’t count. Or, I told myself that.

His gorgeous eyes did a head to chest and back again and then his head tipped very slightly to the side.

Then he asked, “Sweep?”

“What?” I asked back and also I was back to confused.

“You get picked up in a sweep? Somethin’ that didn’t stick.”

I shook my head, still confused. “A sweep for what?”

“Solicitation,” he answered and my back went straight.

That’s when I knew he thought I was one of Shift’s girls.

I leaned in and whispered on a slight, annoyed hiss, testing the boundaries, I knew, but pissed enough to do it, “I’m not a prostitute.”

And I couldn’t believe he’d ask it. I mean, did I look like a prostitute? No! And I’d been around enough of them to know. Sure, one could say the ribbed white tank and low-rider, khaki shorts I was wearing weren’t the height of fashion but they weren’t slut clothes. Even if I was wearing (very cute, in my opinion) tan, wide-strapped platform wedges (that still took me nowhere near his height).

It was hot out there!

And I wore high heels. It was what I did. It was who I was. A lot of women who weren’t prostitutes wore high heels. Even with shorts.

“Shift knows two types of women, whores and junkies. You a junkie?”

“No,” I snapped and sat back. “Jesus, of course not.”

Now he was really ticking me off because I’d been around junkies too and I really didn’t look like any of them. My hair was clean, for one. And I’d had it trimmed not a week ago. I had body fat, for another. Maybe a wee bit too much so, seriously, not a strung-out junkie.

“Shift knows two types of women, whores and junkies,” he repeated. “Which one are you?”

“Neither,” I bit off.

“Shift knows two types of women, whores and junkies,” he said yet again. “He sent you which means he knows you so which one are you?”

Okay, now I just was really ticked off.

Therefore I replied, “You can ask it again and again, Mr. Humongo, but the answer doesn’t change.”

This was the wrong thing to do. I knew it when he instantly dropped his fork on his plate and both hands flashed out, catching mine by the wrists, he pulled them and, incidentally, me to him across the table, my arms insides up. His chin tilted down and his eyes did a scan of my upper extremities.

He was looking for tracks.

Asshole.

I made a mental note that he might be large but that didn’t mean he couldn’t move fast.

Then I yanked at my hands, he didn’t release them so I hissed, “Let me go.”

He let me go and grabbed his fork. Then he ate the rest of the sausage.

I sucked in breath thinking maybe I should have pushed this particular favor with Shift, as in, put my foot down, refused to do it and took my chances.

Just driving across a few states, picking up some guy from prison, taking him wherever. That’s what I thought it was.

It was never just that with Shift.

I should have known better.

“Toes,” he muttered, dropping his fork and going after a piece of toast.

“What?” I asked, going after another fry but finding myself not hungry though thinking that my situation was uncertain and therefore I should probably eat when I had the opportunity.

His eyes came to me.

They were light brown. I just noticed that. The shape and the eyelashes had taken all my attention so I missed that they were light brown. This was a little surprising considering his skin tone said he was a mutt and that mutt definitely included African-American. There was Caucasian in him, I was guessing, but no more than half. His skin was as perfect as the rest of him but dark-toned and not with Italian olive undertones but definitely black. Whoever’s genes formed him, they gave him the best of the both of them. At least in the looks department. Personality was seriously up for debate.

“Shoot up between the toes,” he explained and my thoughts went from the color of his eyes, the perfection of his skin and his luck with heredity to our annoying conversation.

“I told you, Walker, I’m not a junkie. I’ve never shot up anything, on my arms, between my toes, anywhere,” I stated then bit into the fry maybe a little angrily but still, what the f**k?

And further to what the f**k, why was he asking me these questions?