Page 28 of It Takes a Thief
“Pick a song, serial flipper.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks, fingers stilling.
“Someone who can’t listen to a song for more than thirty seconds.”
My hand still covers hers, and neither of us breaks the hold. Her skin is so soft, and I resist the urge to lace my fingers through hers, tug her hand over, and lay it on my thigh.
“I am not a serial flipper,” she denies. “I just always wonder what’s playing on the other stations.”
“Scared you’re missing out?”
Instead of answering, she pulls her hand back, and I miss the connection. I punch the button, find the song I like and turn the volume up.
“I think the better question is how can you like this song?” she asks, glossy lips twitching.
“You’re joking, right?” I glance over at her while “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses pumps through the speakers.“This is one of my favorite songs when I work out. It always gets me pumped up.”
She gives a dainty shrug.
“Let me guess. You prefer something a little more refined. Beethoven perhaps, Princess? Or maybe a little Mozart?” I ask in my most refined, completely stuffy and totally obnoxious voice.
She scrunches her nose up, punches my arm, and I chuckle. “No! I mostly like pop music.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Why do you say that?” She tilts her head, curious.
“Because they’re typically short songs,” I tease.
“You act like I have the attention span of a gnat.”
She’s eyeing the radio controls again, and I can’t help but grin. “You want to change the channel, don’t you?”
For a moment she doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I went too far. Right before I can apologize, she murmurs, “I usually sit in the back of cars and get chauffeured around. Being upfront and playing around with the radio is just a rare privilege and fun for me.”
“Welcome to the Jungle” ends and I look over at her. She’s so sincere and seems to take pleasure in the little things so many other people take for granted.
“Then flip away, my little serial flipper,” I say invitingly. She sends me a gorgeous smile and starts punching the buttons again.
Once I see the warehouse, I drive past and find parking a couple blocks away. If it gets busted and we need to make a fast getaway, I don’t want to be parked too close.
Of course, I don’t tell Mer that.
I seriously doubt anything will happen. Generally, the cops around here tend to leave us alone. Hell, some of them even attend and place bets like everyone else. They’ve been going on for as long as I can remember, and even though I’m not overly concerned, I still like to be prepared.
We get out of the SUV and walk up the street. I can hear the raucous crowd inside as we reach the abandoned warehouse. After paying the admission fee to the inked guy at the door, I reach down and wrap my hand around Mer’s much smaller one. I notice the bouncer checking her out and I let out a warning growl as we pass.
“Remember, stay close,” I say. She nods, sending me a big smile, and I can feel the excitement thrumming through her. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze and we step into controlled chaos.
The smells of hay and damp concrete fill the air. I take a moment to look around at all the people drinking beer from red plastic cups and talking excitedly about the upcoming fights. The energy in the room is high. Hell, it’s like I never left the underground circuit, and a huge grin spreads across my face.
Mama, I’m home.
A glance over at the chalkboard shows there are fifteen fights scheduled tonight. I skim down the list of opponents and recognize quite a few names. The big fight of the night is slated last, and it’s between Kellan “The Killer” Daughtry and Lester “Left Hook” Jackson. I’m tempted to go over to the betting booths and place some money on The Killer.
“Lights Out! Holy shit, bro, where have you been?”
I turn to see a blast from the past and slap hands with Mikey Serrano, an old buddy from the neighborhood. We caused quite a few ruckuses together back in the day.
