visit, Sport. I swear. Just bein’ friendly.”
She pulled the gun up, and he dropped his hands. “You come to my house this morning and threaten me, then you show up in full dark and want to be friendly ? Are you drunk?”
He took one step up. When she didn’t put the gun back on him, he came the rest of the way onto the deck. “I wish I was. You got no idea. I’m just here ‘cuz I want to see you. And I didn’t threaten you this morning. I just told you the score.” He crossed the deck and stood before her. She decocked the gun—fuck, she’d really been ready to shoot that damn thing—and stepped back into the house. He followed and pulled the door closed.
“You hold that like you know what you’re doing. That’s no purse pistol.” It was a Sig Sauer P220. Show and Havoc carried the same sidearm. Another piece to the Lilli puzzle: she knew her way around a handgun. Not exactly a mark in the “harmless” column.
She set the gun on the kitchen counter. Then she opened a cabinet and pulled a bottle of good tequila and two shot glasses down. As she was pouring, she asked, “Why are you here, Isaac?” She handed him a glass.
Maybe the night was taking a turn for the better. He took it from her, and they drank together. “You don’t do the lime and salt thing, huh?”
“Not unless I’m looking for attention at a bar—and that hardly ever happens. You haven’t answered my question.” She poured two more shots.
“Yeah, I have. I’m really here just to see you.” They tossed the next shots back. Lilli regarded him steadily, then turned to the fridge and pulled two bottles of beer out. She handed him one, and gestured with hers toward the living room.
She sat on the ugly brown couch, and he sat next to her. He stretched his arm across the back, his hand near her head. She gave it a suspicious glance but didn’t make him move it.
Isaac finished his beer in three long swallows and set the bottle on the coffee table. He was feeling a little more mellow than he had for awhile. He needed a break from his busy head. There was a book open, face down, on the table. It wasn’t in English. He picked it up: La Nausée , by Jean-Paul Sartre. He didn’t know the book, but he knew the author.
“You read Sartre? In French? And Dante in Italian? How many languages do you speak?”
She considered him over her beer bottle as she drank. When she pulled the bottle from her lips, her eyes stayed locked on his. He didn’t look away. Finally, she answered, “Including English? Eight.”
That was a truth. He knew it. It just sounded true. He tried to decide whether she had a tell, or whether he was using some kind of intuition, or whether he was just fucking delusional and he had no idea when she was telling the truth.
He counted off on his fingers, thumb first: “English, Italian, and French. What are the other five?” She shook her head. He leaned toward her, vexed. She was gorgeous. He felt compelled by her somehow. He wanted her secrets out from between them. “Why is that a secret, Lilli? What is it you’re hiding?” She turned to put her own bottle down, and he reached out and grabbed her ponytail, yanking her back. He wanted a fucking answer.
The look she turned on him was pure fire. Before he could put another coherent thought together, she’d knocked his hand free of her, and she was straddling him, one hand hooked around his neck, her thumb on his carotid artery, the heel of the other hand pressing his chin back. It hurt like a sumbitch, and he realized that she was very effectively cutting off blood flow to his brain. His vision was getting dark around the edges.
“Rough in the sack is one thing, asshole. Do not think you can knock me around.” He put a hand around her wrist to pull her loose, but she increased the pressure on his neck. Finally, he put his hands up in surrender, and she released him. She stayed on his lap, though, her weight right on his cock. She had to know how turned on
She pulled the gun up, and he dropped his hands. “You come to my house this morning and threaten me, then you show up in full dark and want to be friendly ? Are you drunk?”
He took one step up. When she didn’t put the gun back on him, he came the rest of the way onto the deck. “I wish I was. You got no idea. I’m just here ‘cuz I want to see you. And I didn’t threaten you this morning. I just told you the score.” He crossed the deck and stood before her. She decocked the gun—fuck, she’d really been ready to shoot that damn thing—and stepped back into the house. He followed and pulled the door closed.
“You hold that like you know what you’re doing. That’s no purse pistol.” It was a Sig Sauer P220. Show and Havoc carried the same sidearm. Another piece to the Lilli puzzle: she knew her way around a handgun. Not exactly a mark in the “harmless” column.
She set the gun on the kitchen counter. Then she opened a cabinet and pulled a bottle of good tequila and two shot glasses down. As she was pouring, she asked, “Why are you here, Isaac?” She handed him a glass.
Maybe the night was taking a turn for the better. He took it from her, and they drank together. “You don’t do the lime and salt thing, huh?”
“Not unless I’m looking for attention at a bar—and that hardly ever happens. You haven’t answered my question.” She poured two more shots.
“Yeah, I have. I’m really here just to see you.” They tossed the next shots back. Lilli regarded him steadily, then turned to the fridge and pulled two bottles of beer out. She handed him one, and gestured with hers toward the living room.
She sat on the ugly brown couch, and he sat next to her. He stretched his arm across the back, his hand near her head. She gave it a suspicious glance but didn’t make him move it.
Isaac finished his beer in three long swallows and set the bottle on the coffee table. He was feeling a little more mellow than he had for awhile. He needed a break from his busy head. There was a book open, face down, on the table. It wasn’t in English. He picked it up: La Nausée , by Jean-Paul Sartre. He didn’t know the book, but he knew the author.
“You read Sartre? In French? And Dante in Italian? How many languages do you speak?”
She considered him over her beer bottle as she drank. When she pulled the bottle from her lips, her eyes stayed locked on his. He didn’t look away. Finally, she answered, “Including English? Eight.”
That was a truth. He knew it. It just sounded true. He tried to decide whether she had a tell, or whether he was using some kind of intuition, or whether he was just fucking delusional and he had no idea when she was telling the truth.
He counted off on his fingers, thumb first: “English, Italian, and French. What are the other five?” She shook her head. He leaned toward her, vexed. She was gorgeous. He felt compelled by her somehow. He wanted her secrets out from between them. “Why is that a secret, Lilli? What is it you’re hiding?” She turned to put her own bottle down, and he reached out and grabbed her ponytail, yanking her back. He wanted a fucking answer.
The look she turned on him was pure fire. Before he could put another coherent thought together, she’d knocked his hand free of her, and she was straddling him, one hand hooked around his neck, her thumb on his carotid artery, the heel of the other hand pressing his chin back. It hurt like a sumbitch, and he realized that she was very effectively cutting off blood flow to his brain. His vision was getting dark around the edges.
“Rough in the sack is one thing, asshole. Do not think you can knock me around.” He put a hand around her wrist to pull her loose, but she increased the pressure on his neck. Finally, he put his hands up in surrender, and she released him. She stayed on his lap, though, her weight right on his cock. She had to know how turned on
Similar Books
