Page 127 of Devil’s Disciples

“Let me help you,” I offered.

“Stay where you are,” he growled. “I mean it. You cooked it, I’ll clean it up. I’ve got this.”

I did as he asked, and watched admiringly as he rinsed the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped the countertops down. In my twenty years of marriage, my husband didn’t do the dishes once. Further convinced that it was Marvin who was the oddity, I smiled as Cash returned to the table and sat down.

“Are you trying to earn a blowjob?”

“I told you I wasn’t going to mention it, and I won’t.”

He hadn’t said a word about it, which I found impressive. “You’ve held up your end of the promise. You haven’t mentioned it. But, did you clean up the dishes because you hoped it’d get you one step closer to a blowjob?”

“I cleaned up the dishes because it was the right thing to do. I might look like a thug, but I was raised by a good woman. Just don’t cross me. I’m that ‘best friend worst nightmare’ guy.”

I wrinkled my nose. “The what?”

“I’m either a person’s best friend, or their worst nightmare.” He reached for his glass of wine, took a drink, and winced at the taste. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “I’m not going to try to convince you I’m a good guy, because I’m not. I’m an asshole. What you’re seeing is an abnormality. With most women, if you weren’t giving up the pussy on that first night, I’d have been long gone.”

I felt an odd sense of honor that he chose to stick around. I was intrigued as to why. “Why are you here?”

“I think it was the discussion about history. Never met a chick that talked about that. You’re different.”

“It might be my age,” I admitted. “I’m not going to sit and giggle while you flex your biceps. Is that what you’re used to?”

He grinned. “Kind of.”

“Flex your bicep,” I said jokingly.

He looked at his empty wine glass and then at me. His eyes were smiling. “Maybe later.”

While he glanced around the room, I admired him. Despite Jennifer’s early comments to the contrary, he was a big man. Be it that he was a hard-core biker, or that he simply possessed a certain aura about him, he was unmistakably masculine.

So much so that it was scary.

His worst enemy comment piqued my curiosity to a point that I had to ask. “What’s the worst thing you’ve done to someone who’s crossed you?”

His gaze dropped to the center of the table. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

He shook his head. “I won’t tell you.”

“Why?”

His gaze met mine. “There’s some things that shouldn’t be talked about.”

“I just want to know.”

“I don’t know you well enough to tell you.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

I wasn’t appalled, but the remark was far from flattering. “Why not?”

“Why should I?” he asked. “You haven’t earned it.”

I considered his response. I hadn’t earned it. But. I hadn’t given him a reason not to, either.