Colorado 03 Lady Luck (2 page)

Two seconds later, he said in a deep voice
that I felt reverberating in my chest even though he was three feet
away, “I’m out.”

Then he flipped the phone closed and tossed
it to me.

Automatically, my hands came up and I
bobbled it but luckily caught it before it fell to the asphalt at
our feet.

“Keys,” he rumbled and I blinked.

“What?”

His big hand came up between us, palm to the
sky and I looked down at it to see his black tats and the veins
sticking out on his superhumanly muscled forearm.

“Keys,” he repeated.

My eyes went back to his beautiful ones.

“But… it’s my car.”

“Keys,” he said again, same rumble, same
tone, no impatience, no nothing and I got the sense he’d stand
there all day fencing me in and repeating that word until I
complied.

I swallowed.

Hmm.

I was thinking I didn’t want to spend the
whole day in the hot sun having a conversation with a mountain of a
man where his only contribution was one, one syllable word.

“They’re in the ignition.”

“Passenger seat,” he replied and I wondered
if he knew any verbs.

I didn’t think it wise to ask this question.
I nodded and noticed he didn’t move. There was a slip of space on
either side of him between door and car but only a small slip. He
didn’t intend to get out of my way.

I turned sideways, sucked in my gut and
squeezed by him, the front of my body skimming the hard side of
his, the back of it skimming the car door.

I got free and moved around the trunk to the
passenger side.

He’d adjusted the seat and folded his big
bulk into the driver’s side by the time I angled in the passenger
side.

The second I pulled the door shut, my
precious baby roared to life.

He didn’t put his seatbelt on or wait for me
to do so as he skidded out, wheels screeching against asphalt and
we took off through the waves of heat down the road in front of the
prison.

Shit.

* * * * *

“Two,” Ty Walker rumbled at the woman who
was wearing a yellow waitress dress, white cuffs on her short
sleeves, a little white apron, a little white cap on her head, the
whole outfit belonging in a sitcom from the ‘70’s.

She had her head tilted way back and she was
staring up at him blinking rapidly, easily read expressions moving
across her face. Awe. Fear. Titillation. Curiosity. Lust.

“Two,” Ty Walker repeated when she didn’t
move then he added, “Booth.” Then he finished, “Back.”

She kept blinking.

I stepped in front of him and waved my hand
in hopes of getting her attention.

She blinked a couple of times and her head
tipped down so she could look at me but it was still tilted back
because I was also taller than her and I would be even if I wasn’t
wearing platform sandals.

“Hi,” I said chirpily. “Can we have a booth
at the back of the restaurant?”

She stared at me, her eyes flicked up to
Walker then they came back to me then she nodded, turned to the
hostess stand, grabbed a couple of menus and hustled through the
diner to the back where there was an open booth. She slapped the
menus on the table and Walker rounded her and sat with his back to
the wall. I slid in on the other side.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling at her.

“Coffee,” Walker said over me. “Now.”

She nodded quickly.

He kept speaking. “Bacon, crispy, double
order. Sausage links, double order. Four pancakes. Four eggs, over
medium. Four slices of bread. Hash browns, double order. After the
coffee.”

She blinked at him and it hit me that was
the most he’d said (since our hour long ride from the prison to
this diner consisted of no talk at all) and it also hit me that
maybe he actually
didn’t
know any
verbs since he still hadn’t used any but one and that was to tell
Shift he was out but, even so, he’d only used two words to do
that.

Then she looked at me.

“I don’t know what I want to eat yet but a
Diet Coke would be sweet. I’ll take a look at the menu. If you can
get my guy here his food, though, that would be good,” I said to
her. “He’s, uh… hungry,” I finished, pointing out the obvious since
he ordered enough to feed four.

“We have Diet Pepsi,” she whispered, her
whisper holding a tremor of fear, like me not getting Coke would
send Walker into a violent rage the bloody results of which would
make network news.

“That works too.” I smiled at her again.

She nodded and rushed away.

I looked at Walker. He was looking out the
window.

Then I looked at the menu.

She came with the coffee first and I ordered
a tuna melt and curly fries. She came back with my diet. Then she
came with his food before my tuna melt. Finally, she delivered my
sandwich.

By this time, Walker was almost done with
his food.

And, I will note, he said not one word
throughout.

As I chewed a fry, I figured it was time for
me to suck it up and attempt conversation if just to find out what
was next.

“Is it good?” I asked as he shoved pancake
into his mouth, thinking to ease into it.

His eyes cut to me.

What he did not do was speak. He just chewed
and swallowed while forking into pancake and, once he swallowed, he
shoved more pancake in.

Then his eyes moved through the diner and
didn’t come back to me as he continued to scan his
surroundings.

I tried again, deciding on a more direct
approach as, clearly, this guy was not into idle chitchat.

“So, um… what’s next on the agenda?”

He looked at me again. Then he speared a
sausage link with his fork, brought it to his well-formed lips and
bit it in half with even, very white, extremely strong-looking
teeth.

He did this and he didn’t answer.

So I kept trying. “It would kinda be nice to
know, uh… what we’re doing and, um… where we’re going,” I told
him.

He ate the rest of the sausage link.

He again didn’t answer.

“Uh… Ty –” I started but he finally spoke
and when he did, he spoke over me.

“Name,” he rumbled.

“Name?” I asked, confused.

His beautiful eyes didn’t leave me and he
also didn’t explain.

“
You mean
my
name?” I asked.

Again, he continued to stare at me without
saying a word.

“Lexie,” I told him, guessing that’s what he
meant and not pointing out I’d already introduced myself.

“Full name,” he said then speared another
sausage link.

While he bit off half, I answered, “Alexa
Anne Berry.”

He chewed. He swallowed.

“Priors?” he asked and I felt my brows draw
together.

“Sorry?” I asked back.

“You got a record?”

I was surprised at this question for two
reasons. One, he’d used his first verb and I had convinced myself
he only knew caveman-speak. Two, it was a weird question.

“No,” I answered. “No record.”

Or, at least, not one that wasn’t sealed.
What could I say? There was a reason Ronnie was my boyfriend since
high school, I’d been wild. It was just, back then, he wasn’t. Then
I stopped being wild, he’d started and he did it better than me. I
had a juvenile record but that didn’t count. Or, I told myself
that.

His gorgeous eyes did a head to chest and
back again and then his head tipped very slightly to the side.

Then he asked, “Sweep?”

“What?” I asked back and also I was back to
confused.

“You get picked up in a sweep? Somethin’
that didn’t stick.”

I shook my head, still confused. “A sweep
for what?”

“Solicitation,” he answered and my back went
straight.

That’s when I knew he thought I was one of
Shift’s girls.

I leaned in and whispered on a slight,
annoyed hiss, testing the boundaries, I knew, but pissed enough to
do it, “I’m not a prostitute.”

And I couldn’t believe he’d ask it. I
mean, did I
look
like a
prostitute?
No!
And I’d been
around enough of them to know. Sure, one could say the ribbed white
tank and low-rider, khaki shorts I was wearing weren’t the height
of fashion but they weren’t slut clothes. Even if I was wearing
(very cute, in my opinion) tan, wide-strapped platform wedges (that
still took me nowhere near his height).

It was hot out there!

And I wore high heels. It was what I did. It
was who I was. A lot of women who weren’t prostitutes wore high
heels. Even with shorts.

“Shift knows two types of women, whores and
junkies. You a junkie?”

“No,” I snapped and sat back. “Jesus, of
course not.”

Now he was really ticking me off because
I’d been around junkies too and I
really
didn’t look like any of them. My hair was clean, for one.
And I’d had it trimmed not a week ago. I had body fat, for another.
Maybe a wee bit too much so, seriously, not a strung-out
junkie.

“Shift knows two types of women, whores and
junkies,” he repeated. “Which one are you?”

“Neither,” I bit off.

“Shift knows two types of women, whores and
junkies,” he said yet again. “He sent you which means he knows you
so which one are you?”

Okay, now I just
was
really ticked off.

Therefore I replied, “You can ask it again
and again, Mr. Humongo, but the answer doesn’t change.”

This was the wrong thing to do. I knew it
when he instantly dropped his fork on his plate and both hands
flashed out, catching mine by the wrists, he pulled them and,
incidentally,
me
to him across
the table, my arms insides up. His chin tilted down and his eyes
did a scan of my upper extremities.

He was looking for tracks.

Asshole.

I made a mental note that he might be large
but that didn’t mean he couldn’t move fast.

Then I yanked at my hands, he didn’t release
them so I hissed, “Let me go.”

He let me go and grabbed his fork. Then he
ate the rest of the sausage.

I sucked in breath thinking maybe I should
have pushed this particular favor with Shift, as in, put my foot
down, refused to do it and took my chances.

Just driving across a few states, picking up
some guy from prison, taking him wherever. That’s what I thought it
was.

It was never just that with Shift.

I should have known better.

“Toes,” he muttered, dropping his fork and
going after a piece of toast.

“What?” I asked, going after another fry but
finding myself not hungry though thinking that my situation was
uncertain and therefore I should probably eat when I had the
opportunity.

His eyes came to me.

They were light brown. I just noticed that.
The shape and the eyelashes had taken all my attention so I missed
that they were light brown. This was a little surprising
considering his skin tone said he was a mutt and that mutt
definitely included African-American. There was Caucasian in him, I
was guessing, but no more than half. His skin was as perfect as the
rest of him but dark-toned and not with Italian olive undertones
but definitely black. Whoever’s genes formed him, they gave him the
best of the both of them. At least in the looks department.
Personality was seriously up for debate.

“Shoot up between the toes,” he explained
and my thoughts went from the color of his eyes, the perfection of
his skin and his luck with heredity to our annoying
conversation.

“
I told you, Walker, I’m not a junkie. I’ve
never shot up anything, on my arms, between my toes,
anywhere,
” I
stated then bit into the fry maybe a little angrily but still, what
the fuck?

And further to what the fuck, why was he
asking me these questions?

He studied me, eyes still blank, nothing
working back there or nothing he’d give away. But his gaze didn’t
leave my face.

This lasted awhile. It lasted while he
chewed on his toast and I made a dent in my fries. It lasted long
enough for me to wish he’d scan the restaurant or stare out the
window again.

Then he declared on a low, knowing rumble,
“You spread for him.”

I stopped avoiding his study of me and
looked back at him. “What?”

“Surprising,” he muttered, going back to his
fork and his pancakes.

I guessed as to his meaning and informed
him, “I’m not Shift’s bookie.”

His eyes shot from his pancakes to me.

“Come again?”

“I’m not Shift’s bookie,” I repeated. “I
don’t do a spread for him.”

He stared at me.

Then he whispered, “Jesus.”

“I work retail,” I told him.

He stared at me more.

“I’m a buyer,” I continued. “At Lowenstein’s
department stores.”

He continued to stare at me.

Then he asked, “How’d he tap that?”

“What?” I asked back.

“A buyer for a fuckin’ department store.
How’d Shift tap that?”

I shook my head again, my eyes narrowing and
I repeated, “What?”

“
Why do
you,
” he tipped his head at me as if I didn’t know who he meant
by “you”, “spread for him?”

“I’m telling you, I’m not his bookie. He
doesn’t place bets with me. And anyway, what bookie would run an
errand for a guy like Shift?”

Jeez, maybe he had a hearing problem.

He leaned toward me and said quietly,
“Spread.” I opened my mouth to reply but he went on, “Your
legs.”

I blinked.

Then I got him.

Then my back went straight.

Then I snapped, “I don’t
sleep with
Shift.
Gross! Are you
crazy?”