So instead, I lick my lips, let the grin slide into place and dip my chin just enough that my hair swings forward across my forehead.
People think I do everything by impulse. It’s not true.
Girls love the hair. Ginger’s a novelty around here. It’s just rare enough to look like trouble, just soft enough they want to touch it.
“I’m Talon,” I say.
Lark’s smirk sharpens, like she just tried my name on her tongue and decided it tastes good. Yeah, she likes it. She likes me. I can tell.
“You one of Fisher’s boys?” she asks, circling.
I don’t bother giving her the truth. Does it matter?
“I work for me,” I say.
“Uh-huh.” She gets close enough for me to finally see the color of her eyes. They are green. Like the shard of a broken beer bottle green. Stabby, but also pretty in the street way. Like the type of art we can afford around here.
“Working for yourself on Fisher’s turf?” she says. “That takes guts.”
“Or a head injury,” I shrug. “I’m still weighing my options.”
She tilts her head, assessing.
“You look like a high school dropout,” she tells me. “Been running with the wrong crowd since before you could shave type. You’ve got a little grease under your nails, a lot of fat in your blood, and exactly zero fear in your eyes.”
I grin.
She’s not wrong.
Not entirely right either, but close enough for someone who just met me. People usually stop at the surface, and that’s fine. Easier that way.
“You don’t look like a scholar yourself,” I say.
She’s got that kind of face that dares you to underestimate her—cute, a little wild, eyeliner sharper than her words. Probably sixteen, seventeen tops, but her eyes say she’s already lived through a few wars no one talks about. I recognize that look. You don’t fake it.
“Maybe,” she says, “but I’ve got a Camaro.”
So she’s proud. Or deflecting. Or both. Either way, she’s not denying the rest. I respect that.
Still… girls like her don’t just walk around without someone claiming their shadow. There’s always a name behind the curtain. A crew. A man. Something.
I should figure that out before getting involved.
Should.
But those eyes, like cracked glass catching the sun, they make it real hard to care about logic.
“Cut the bullshit, babe,” I say, leaning againsthercar. My gaze drifts down before I can stop it. Tight black blouse, laces crossing over. Rose tattoos blooming on her collarbones. There’s a small dip between her tits, and I tell myself I’m just being observant. “You and I both know this beast won’t survive another month without a proper tune-up.”
Sure.
She folds her arms, pushing up what I was staring at a second ago. Her tits perk up, and I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose to get me hooked or something. I mean, I think I’m hooked enough already, but I’m not complaining.
“And you’re the guy to do it?” she asks.
Am I?
Hell if I know. I came here for quick cash, not charity work.
