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Home > Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(3)

Lady Luck (Colorado Mountain #3)(3)
Author: Kristen Ashley

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.

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