The guys walk ahead of us. “What would you have done had I shaken your friend’s hand?” I ask.
“He’s not my friend.”
“That’s right. You don’t have friends. Work takes up your time.” My words come out snarky, and I feel bad, but I’m still trying to come to terms with the Bobby I spent time with being the Bobby who issued a warning of “I don’t share, sweetness” with murderous intent.
“Slate is more than that. He’s like a brother to me.” He squeezes my hand before eclipsing it with his big one in a protective hold, like I am truly his girl.
My heart rejoices. I tell my heart to can it. Is Bobby interested in me because I’m part of Ty’s crew and have access to José? Is he fishing for what I know about Carlos’s murder? It’d make sense why he’s interested in a plain Jane like me when he can have any woman he wants.
I’m not one hundred percent buying Bobby’s claim that I’m his girl. He’s making me think I am because, according to him, there’s a purpose for everything he does. His purpose is to get to the truth of Carlos’s death. Don’t I want the same? Can I trust Bobby?
Not only is Bobby a playboy, but he’s a ruthless bad boy. Joey gave me the four-one-one on his boss when we said our goodbyes at brunch. I’d pulled him aside and demanded that he give me everything he had on Bobby.
I counted on Joey’s tendency to overshare, and he did. The only thing he didn’t elaborate on is a different rumor that Bobby’s doing business with some very bad characters who rule the underbelly of Alexandria, along with Bobby’s initiation into that dark world.
What was he forced to do? Was Carlos’s murder his initiation? Joey said Bobby hadn’t shown up at the club until a year ago, from what he’d overheard the other workers whispering about. No one knew where he was before that, but Bobby slipped when he told me he was in the marines.
Bobby was deployed, but from when to when? Carlos lost his life two years ago. It’s rumored that Bobby led him to the kill shot point. Was Bobby there with Carlos, or did someone spread the rumor to either get back at Bobby or throw the detectives off the killer’s or killers’ trail?
The detectives said there were no witnesses, no street cameras, and no evidence in the area, including fingerprints on the warehouse’s door handle. It was like the shooter stayed behind to clean up the crime scene. What if it were Bobby who had stayed behind?
Joey said he overheard Dominic Costello, who everyone thought was Crimson’s owner, boast about Crimson getting out of the red and into the black the last two years. Had Bobby led Carlos to the kill shot point to eliminate a competitor and secure the cash needed to pull his nightclub out of the red?
My thoughts are swirling, and a headache comes on. I’m getting nowhere with the overthinking, but there is one person I trust who can walk me through my tangled thoughts and tell me which leads to chase down.
I’ll set up a visit with my dad. It has to be soon. My two weeks without Gage around the house are almost up. Braxton will be released from prison in two weeks. Time squeezes my chest like a vice, and I can’t draw in enough air.
“You okay down there?” Bobby glances down at me. “You’re thinking awful hard.” He stops our walking and palms the side of my face. “Anything I can do to help?”
I talk myself down from a panic attack.
Why does Bobby have to be so nice? If he were mean and a jerk, it’d make hating him easier to do. I lay my hand over his. His warmth seeps into my skin, and this comforting feeling settles over me. “I’m fine now. Thank you for asking.”
“Good to know, and you’re welcome.” He moves his hand from my face and intertwines our fingers. We start walking to the house on the other side of my fence.
“If Slate is like a brother to you, why do you give him grief? Why be a jerk?”
I stare at Slate’s back. The guys are out of earshot, and Bobby isn’t in a hurry to catch up to them.
“Like what?”
“Demanding I not touch him. Calling him the ‘P’ word. Bossing him around to get work done on the house, starting now.” I tick off each jerk move on my fingers.
He shrugs. “That’s what guys do when we care about our bros, our bruhs, our man. We rib on one another. If he can’t take it, then he’s not my bro, bruh, or man.”
My eyes widen. I erupt in laughter. I shake my head. This guy . . . He’s possessive and commanding one moment and funny the next.
He stops walking. I don’t. He pulls me back and throws in a tug that swings my body toward his. A large palm settles on the small of my back, and his other cradles my face. Sea-glass eyes roam over my features. My skin heats from his intense attention.
“Have I told you how fucking beautiful you are when you laugh straight from your soul?” Bobby strums his thumb over the crest of my cheek and lingers on my freckles.
He finds the part of me I think is ugly beautiful. He worships my freckles with a tender caress from his finger, then his mouth. My knees weaken. I clutch the front of his shirt. Or do I want to drop to my knees and give him control of my body like he did inside his truck as we watched another sunset?
To come as the sun dropped below the horizon? I’ve never experienced such beauty and ecstasy until a sexy guy with sea-glass eyes came into my life and turned my world upside down.
Bobby has me liking surprises again and has taught me to experience the beauty of the change in the weather rather than be afraid of it.
Before the accident, I loved the sound of rain hitting the windowpanes. It reminded me of spending time with my mom, curled up on the sofa, binge-watching our latest obsessions with a bowl of popcorn. Or sitting on the back porch and listening to raindrops on the puddles. The sound was comforting, almost musical.
