Page 3 of Tarnished Hands

I didn’t need Keir or the other men in the family to tell them who I was.

I fucking showed them.

And now, I love what I do and who I am.

But sometimes I’m lonely.

They’re still staring, waiting for my answer.

But I respond with an emphatic, “No! Not Ezra. We fucked. End of story.”

“It seems to me the guy was looking at you like he wanted to do it again,” Joey says as he starts the car.

“I like him,” Keir says, out of the blue and definitely out of character to speak the words out loud.

“We know you like him. If you didn’t, you would have killed him already,” Joey replies, smiling as he drives off.

Chapter Two

EZRA

The long-legged, dark-eyed beauty, with inky black hair, is a spicy little minx. Of course, underneath all that attitude, I figured she would be. If she were mine, I wouldn’t change a thing about her.

I’ve known who she is for a while now. It’s hard to miss her because she’s always with Keir whenever we meet.

The woman loiters and is dangerous.

Apparently, she put a bullet in a man’s leg for grabbing her wrist once. Rumour has it she didn’t even blink.

The night she punched me, though? I wasn’t concerned about her shooting me. Not when all I could think about was hearing her voice. Because of all the times she stood by Keir’s side, she never spoke. And damn did that drive me bat shit crazy.

She decked me a good one instead. So, I waited until we would see each other out of business mode to get her to talk to me again. Thought I’d go out of my mind waiting to pounce on what had started to possess my every thought.

Finally, when Joey invited me to one of his parties, and when she waltzed in wearing a blood-red short as fuck dress, a pair of black boots, and her hair down instead of up, I knew I had to have her.

And have her, I did.

Over and over, she screamed my name. Clawed her nails down my back, my chest, and gave just as good as she got.

Now, if I could just get her to come back so I can worship, taste, and fuck her again.

“What’s up with the angry girl?” Lydia, my office manager, asks as she enters the shop and leans against the counter.

“Angry girl?” I ask, playing dumb when I know perfectly well who she’s talking about. I smile as images of a pissed off Piper run through my mind.

“Yep, she always looks furious when she comes in with those guys.” Lydia has no idea ‘those guys’ are mafia, and for her sake, she never will. Even so, she knows something shady is going on. Knows how to keep her mouth, too. End of story. “Do you like her?” Her words pull me from my thoughts. I look up to see her brown eyes locked on me, and full of more questions. “Do you?” she reiterates.

“Why?” Lydia and I kissed once. It was a mistake, and I told her so. That kiss—quick, unexpected, more awkward than hot—was supposed to be buried; apparently, it’s not for her.

“She isn’t really your type, now, is she?” Her hands go to her hips over the tiny shorts she has on. I don’t have a uniform for her, and I try to keep my opinion to myself about what women wear—their body, their choice—but she used to wear jeans and tees. Now? Her shorts barely qualify as fabric.

“I have a type?” I ask with a raised brow. “And you would know this how?”

I tend to keep to myself. I prefer it that way. Basically, all I do is work and speak to my brother often. Sure, I’ll go out for drinks on the odd occasion. And on some of those nights, I will end up in the bathroom with my hand up a woman’s dress as she tells me how badly she wants to fuck me. Not that I complain, because sometimes all you need is a release. And I do love women—all types of women, especially crazy ones.

“You’re attracted to me, and she is not me. That’s how I know.” Lydia smiles, flicks her hair over her shoulder, and sashays back to the reception area.

Shit.

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