Page 9 of Diamond In The Rough

“Frances?”

He stops, tightening his gaze until I find we’re in a standoff of sorts. Though I’m not entirely sure why or how we’ve gotten here.

But just when I think my new name might forevermore be Frances, he counters, “No. Your name starts with T.”

A single, challenging brow shoots high on my forehead. “Huh?”

“Taylor was your second attempt at lying, but the T came easily to you. So you were probably going to say your real name, starting with a T, but changed your mind midway through—which is how you ended up where you did.”

Jinkies, he’s right.

“You’re not a dancer, teacher, singer, or songwriter. But you work with your hands.” He lifts his chin, gesturing toward my fingers wrapped securely around the strap of my bag. “You’re saying no to art, but I’m not sure I believe you. You claim a Bronx upbringing, but your accent says light Boston, and your complexion promises Pacific Islands. Most importantly, your presence tonight and your constant eye contact says lover of conflict.” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t want conflict in these streets.”

“My eye contact says ear infection from a cold I only recently kicked,” I retort. “And it’s not eye-to-eye contact, it’s eye-to-lips, so I can ferret out context when your enunciation doesn’t make it all the way to my ears.” I roll my eyes, then continue, “I don’t mind conflict, as a blanket statement, but most people don’t bother me. I’ve never been to Boston in my life—though, I met a man from there once. He was about ninety years old at the time, and that was about ten years ago. He was kind enough, even if he talked too loud. My mother was born in Hawaii, and my father was a New York native.” I pause and grin. “Bronx. And as for my complexion,” I look down at my spindly, knobby, olive-tanned arms. “How do we know my mother didn’t step out with a local man while the one I know as my father was at work?” I drop my hands and push off the wall. “The Bronx is home to a good portion of the Latin community. So how do we know my father isn’t, in fact, Latin?”

He huffs. “Whatever. Tanya?” Then he reaches out and snags my wrist, yanking me back just a step before a trio of men would’ve mowed me down on their way past. “Trista?

“I don’t…” I set the back of my head against the brick wall—the actual brick wall, not the testosterone-jacked version. “What?”

“Taya? Tatiana? Tessa?

“You’re trying to guess my name?”

“Tiana. Tina.” He releases my hand and brings his up to scratch at his stubble. “Your pupils grew just now, and your nostrils flared. So your name starts with the Tee sound.”

“You’re good.” I snicker and follow his gaze when he looks around in thought. “You a professional profiler? Or is this something you dabble in for fun?”

“Tina? Tee? Tee!” His eyes lock in when mine widen. “Just plain old Tee? Is that short for something?”

“You could just ask for my name without all the weird, intense-guy stuff. It’s not ‘just plain old Tee,’ by the way.”

My phone trills from the depths of my bag, the vibration my only cue, since I can’t hear the ringtone above the din of the noisy club. Opening the flap and digging my hand in, I check the screen and find a friend’s name flashing back at me.

I angle my phone, a smirk spreading across my lips when this guy uses his impressive height to tower over me and invade my privacy.

I turn the screen from his view, swipe to answer, then give him my ‘hold please’ finger while I bring the device to my ear. “Jazzy? Are you here yet?”

“Almost!” I use my ‘wait’ finger to plug my other ear and block out the club’s noise. “I’ll be walking inside in about five minutes. You already there? I can hear music.”

“Yeah, I’m here safe and sound. I’ll wait for you at the bar, okay? The dudes around here are kinda handsy.”

“Yes, well…” My friend hums so I almost feel the vibration through the phone. “You’re inside a club owned by the mafia, so maybe keep those hands off you. But, like…” She giggles. “Nicely.”

Alert to the two-hundred-something-pound guy with killer eyes leaning into my space, I fold as close to the wall as I can manage and study his powerful stare. “You don’t say. Names?”

“Uh…” Jazzy is a journalist—or at least, she wishes she was. “Surname Malone. Felix is the boss. His younger brother Micah is the next on the ladder.”

I study Brick-Wall’s clenching jaw. His suspicious eyes. “Just two of them?”

“In the city, yeah. Three more on the other side of the country. Have you seen either of them yet?” Her voice grows more excited. “Are they as cute as their pictures in the paper?”

“Can’t say.”

Brick-Wall’s hand comes across and wraps around my wrist. So quickly, before I lose it, I rattle out a clipped, “I’ll see you soon, okay? Meet me at the bar!”

He pries the device free from my palm and studies the screen, his eyes narrowing in apprehension.

“My friend.”

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