That tells me plenty.
He plants himself by the door while he’s waiting for her. Bible under his arm like a shield. Eyes steady. Mouth calm.
“You following her?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m walking her to her car.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
His jaw tightens, just a little. There’s the crack. “You don’t own her.”
I step closer, boots grinding gravel, and I keep my voice low because I’m not here for a scene. Scenes get girls killed. “You don’t know what kind of men are asking about her.”
“I know what kind of man you are,” he replies, tone quiet like he thinks he’s brave.
I laugh once. No humor in it. “That right?”
“You leave damage,” he says. “Then you call it protection.”
That one lands, because it’s too close to truth.
I lean in, close enough that he gets smoke and leather and something meaner under it. “You ain’t wrong. At least I know I’m dangerous.”
He doesn’t move. That’s mistake number two.
“You think Pearly Gates is asking about her because they care?” I ask.
His eyes flicker. Quick. Guilty.
There it is.
“You know they’re asking,” I say.
“They ask about everybody,” he answers too fast.
“Bullshit.”
The bell above the diner door jingles and Brittany steps out into the cooling air like she can smell tension the way some animals smell storms. She sees us squared up and her whole body tightens.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
Elijah’s face softens toward her in a way I don’t like. “Leaving,” he says, like he’s the hero in a story where heroes don’t bleed.
“Talking,” I answer, because I’m not giving him that.
Her jaw sets. “I don’t need either of you doing that.”
Elijah nods like he’s obedient. “I’ll call you later,” he tells her, then heads for his truck.
I watch her watch him go and I don’t like what it does to my chest, that hot feral twist that has no business existing in a married man’s body.
She turns on me the second he’s gone. “What?” she snaps.
“You been followed?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “No.”
She’s lying. I can see it in the way her shoulders sit too tight and her chin lifts like a shield.
