Page 16 of Nash

“By all means.” He chuckles. “Make that your full-time career.”

Asshole.

I whip around.

“Does Alena know? Does she know her dad is really a murderous mafia dickhead with a rap sheet?”

“A dickhead? Yes. I grounded her so many times, I’m branded as such. And a rap sheet? Yes, she knows I have one. When she was a baby and I was seventeen, I landed in juvie for grand larceny. For stealing credit cards to pay for her diapers and food. I became a dad at sixteen and a dumbass thief to take care of her, but this…” he points between us, “she can’t ever know about.”

“What do you mean?” I point back and forth, too. “This?There is nothis. Unless you mean the car chase, the murder, and the mafia part.”

“Yes, I meanus, Vale.”

“Us?” I lean toward him. Now that we’re not gonna die—yet—I’m pissed. “Look here, Mr. Allen. My name’s not Bonnie, and you’re not Clyde. We’re not inthistogether.” He glares at me with stupid, sexy brown eyes. “And at least Clyde dressed in suits while you dress like you’re getting a colonoscopy at a golf club. Like you shop at Uptight Dad’s R’ Us. Like you?—”

“Are you done?”

I weave my neck. “I’m just getting started.”

He narrows his eyes, his burning glare dropping to my lap, and I glance down.

Dammit.

My white panties are exposed, and I blush, feeling a throbbing tingle right where he’s looking. Yanking my dress down, like I give a shit about modesty, I keep my pride. It’s my other weapon because he needs to stop seducing me with his glare.

So, I lift my chin and glare back.

He grips the steering wheel so tight, veins pop on his hand as he informs me, “You’re right, Vale. We are just getting started because now, you’remine.”

Laughter. Or lunacy. Or both bubble up my throat, and I erupt, “I’m sorry. What?Yours?” I nod. “Yeah, okay. That’ll happen. I’ll be possessed by a man like you can hold a fart in your hand.”

“Fuck.” He fights sudden laughter, throwing his scruffy chin up. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Yes, it is. Call Netflix. Because only in funny fiction will Ieverbelong to you.”

“I mean, you’re my responsibility now,” he seethes, controlling his tone. “We’re exposed. We’ve been burned, and until I’m certain who they are and that you’re safe, you belong to me. You do as I say, go where I go, stay by my side, and shut up when I tell you to. Understand?”

I smirk. “No comprendo.”

He slams his fist on the center console. The plastic cracks, and I jump. “I’m fucking serious, Vale.”

I try opening the door, yanking at the handle, but it won’t budge. “What the hell?”

“Child locks.” He seems sadistically pleased about it.

“I’m not a fucking child! I’m twenty-nine, and?—”

“Then act like it. Appreciate the situation we’re in.”

“The situation you forced me into. It’s not my fault you’re a lying, controlling, criminal dickhead who thinks he’s Clark Kent and sucks as an Uber driver. I’m giving you a one-star review!”

I keep zinging him, and he cracks a smile.

And you know what makes me even madder than a cat being baptized?

Nash Allen has a breathtaking smile.

It’s rare. It’s beautiful. It’s bright. It reaches his eyes like a comet across the sky, and he goes from forty-something to a young golden god with tan skin and sexy, cropped, brown hair kissed by the sun. His beard is dark and neatly trimmed, framing his full lips that are almost pouty, but he’d never sulk.

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