hunched over his glass again, staring into its depths.
Tash let out a breath, oddly relieved. Because if he’d gone anywhere with the woman, she’d feel compelled to follow. Watch. And while there was an undeniable dark part of her wanting to see him peel that shirt off, to lose the pants and reveal everything beneath them, to use his strong hands to take control of a woman, she knew she didn’t want it to be that blonde.
But it surprised her that he didn’t . What kind of man could sit in the middle of this and not care? All this going on around him and he didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge anything but his drink. For a moment, her heart hurt as it dawned on her: all this just to go get a drink. He’d decided against the Bar & Grill, been threatened and all but kicked out of Eight’s. So now he went to a sex club not for sex but just a whiskey or whatever.
Right. Because he’s a killer and they don’t want him in town. Duh, Natasha. But maybe she had an overactive sense of empathy, as she did feel bad for him. And maybe she seriously needed to start dating because these highly inappropriate thoughts could only be coming from a place of sexual starvation.
She settled on one of the divans and wished she could head down for a drink, but didn’t want to risk someone questioning who she was. Instead she pulled out her phone and snapped a few photos from a distance. They didn’t seem like much but there was no telling when they might come in handy, whether to question people about Archer or pull a few favors with light blackmail later.
The whole time Archer remained at the bar, drinking alone.
Interlude I
He left the club, ignoring the bouncer and scanning the parking lot. Irritation thrummed through him with every step and he couldn’t get far enough from the place. Some cars were unknown to him, but many were familiar—people in the area snuck out here, mingling with fake names, hiding who they really were. The thought of their hypocrisy made him sneer.
He stopped at a car he recognized near the back of the lot. His head tilted, looking up and down the vehicle. Definitely familiar—he knew the fly-fishing decal on the lower corner of the rear window, the spot on the bumper where jagged white paper remained after a sticker had been hastily torn off. But Gregory Malone was retired, on vacation by all rights.
He looked up, eyes narrowing on the club. Precisely one person came to mind who might’ve “borrowed” the vehicle.
She had no business being here. She was good. Pure. Sweet. Natasha Whitaker wasn’t the sort to frequent a place like this . Anger rolled through his veins, his hands clenching into fists. He should find her. Drag her by her fucking hair out here, toss her to her knees, demand to know what the hell she thought she was getting mixed up in.
For a moment, he leaned against her borrowed car, thinking about it in great, vivid detail. Heat flooded his veins, thinking of her cowering, screaming, begging for forgiveness even as she knew her punishment was inevitable.
But that would be rash. And she wasn’t his target tonight.
His gaze honed in on the front door, watching and waiting as a blonde exited alone. Her hair was thin and almost white, silky and swishing over her shoulders. Her braless tits bounced beneath the pink half-shirt that barely contained them, little white tennis skirt flouncing at her hips. If he tipped his head to the side, he’d see the underside of her ass. Long, strong legs were made leaner by a pair of white Mary Janes. A small purse hung over her shoulder and she rifled through it, pulling out a cigarette.
He closed in on her.
She was still fumbling with her cigarette as he approached; closer still and he realized it was a joint. Though her purse was tiny, she couldn’t seem to find a lighter.
He reached into his back pocket and produced one. “Need a light?”
Her blue eyes widened, startled, then she took him in and smiled. As he
Tash let out a breath, oddly relieved. Because if he’d gone anywhere with the woman, she’d feel compelled to follow. Watch. And while there was an undeniable dark part of her wanting to see him peel that shirt off, to lose the pants and reveal everything beneath them, to use his strong hands to take control of a woman, she knew she didn’t want it to be that blonde.
But it surprised her that he didn’t . What kind of man could sit in the middle of this and not care? All this going on around him and he didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge anything but his drink. For a moment, her heart hurt as it dawned on her: all this just to go get a drink. He’d decided against the Bar & Grill, been threatened and all but kicked out of Eight’s. So now he went to a sex club not for sex but just a whiskey or whatever.
Right. Because he’s a killer and they don’t want him in town. Duh, Natasha. But maybe she had an overactive sense of empathy, as she did feel bad for him. And maybe she seriously needed to start dating because these highly inappropriate thoughts could only be coming from a place of sexual starvation.
She settled on one of the divans and wished she could head down for a drink, but didn’t want to risk someone questioning who she was. Instead she pulled out her phone and snapped a few photos from a distance. They didn’t seem like much but there was no telling when they might come in handy, whether to question people about Archer or pull a few favors with light blackmail later.
The whole time Archer remained at the bar, drinking alone.
Interlude I
He left the club, ignoring the bouncer and scanning the parking lot. Irritation thrummed through him with every step and he couldn’t get far enough from the place. Some cars were unknown to him, but many were familiar—people in the area snuck out here, mingling with fake names, hiding who they really were. The thought of their hypocrisy made him sneer.
He stopped at a car he recognized near the back of the lot. His head tilted, looking up and down the vehicle. Definitely familiar—he knew the fly-fishing decal on the lower corner of the rear window, the spot on the bumper where jagged white paper remained after a sticker had been hastily torn off. But Gregory Malone was retired, on vacation by all rights.
He looked up, eyes narrowing on the club. Precisely one person came to mind who might’ve “borrowed” the vehicle.
She had no business being here. She was good. Pure. Sweet. Natasha Whitaker wasn’t the sort to frequent a place like this . Anger rolled through his veins, his hands clenching into fists. He should find her. Drag her by her fucking hair out here, toss her to her knees, demand to know what the hell she thought she was getting mixed up in.
For a moment, he leaned against her borrowed car, thinking about it in great, vivid detail. Heat flooded his veins, thinking of her cowering, screaming, begging for forgiveness even as she knew her punishment was inevitable.
But that would be rash. And she wasn’t his target tonight.
His gaze honed in on the front door, watching and waiting as a blonde exited alone. Her hair was thin and almost white, silky and swishing over her shoulders. Her braless tits bounced beneath the pink half-shirt that barely contained them, little white tennis skirt flouncing at her hips. If he tipped his head to the side, he’d see the underside of her ass. Long, strong legs were made leaner by a pair of white Mary Janes. A small purse hung over her shoulder and she rifled through it, pulling out a cigarette.
He closed in on her.
She was still fumbling with her cigarette as he approached; closer still and he realized it was a joint. Though her purse was tiny, she couldn’t seem to find a lighter.
He reached into his back pocket and produced one. “Need a light?”
Her blue eyes widened, startled, then she took him in and smiled. As he
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