“Your place?”
“Christ woman,shut up,” he hissed.
With big eyes, she closed her mouth.
He turned back to the wheel, checked his mirrors, slid outof the spot, and drove the ten minutes to his crib.
He parked at the side, got out, walked to the hood of histruck, and saw she was out, moving hesitantly toward him.
He gave a fake-gallant sweep of his arm toward the sidedoor.
She looked at it like a doomed woman looked at the gallowson her way to the noose.
Then she took in a big breath and marched her sweet asstoward his door.
She stepped aside so he could unlock it.
After he did, he stepped aside so she could precede him.
She’d stopped in his mudroom and he moved past her, goinginto the living room, doing it walking around, turning on lights.
He did this deliberately, taking his time, because he sureas shit didn’t get a lock on his temper on the drive there.
When he finally turned his attention to her, she was lookingaround the room, her mouth hanging open.
“Yeah, bikers read,” he said snidely.
Her eyes snapped to him.
“Dutch—”
“Shut your mouth, I’m talking.”
She shut her mouth, but she did it with her expressionchanging.
She didn’t look confused or concerned.
She looked like she was getting angry.
What this fucking woman had to be angry about, he had noclue.
But he was about to ream her with what was pissinghimoff.
“I cannot believe you sat in my goddamnedtruck—”he was losing it, he clamped down, and started again, “—with me doing you agoddamned favor, driving all the way out to fucking DIA to pick your ass up,and I told you about Carlyle, and you were struggling with your job, your ownshit, when this kid is struggling with his dad getting shot fuckingdead,and you used me sharing that with you to do something for yourself.”
“What?”she asked, back to looking confused.
“Investigating the black market info I gave you to writesomething for your website,” he rapped out.“Bet the crime beat is moreinteresting than the kids beat.Bet it also has afuckuvabetter career trajectory too.Staff writer writing stories about vaping inschool make squat.Investigative reporters probably make a bucketload more.”
She took a step back, honest to fuck, like she’d been suckerpunched.
“You didn’t think I figured it out the minute I saw youthere?”he asked cuttingly.“Bikers don’t read.Bikers don’t volunteer atrunaway shelters.Bikers don’t got brains in their heads?”
“Stop it with the biker stuff,” she whispered.
“Fuck you, Georgiana,” he bit.
Her head jerked.
