Page 4 of Too Cursed To Kiss
His lips pursed smugly. “It’s a C-note if you’re interested.”
I didn’t get paid until Tuesday, so now a hundred bucks was a frigging fortune. Quick cash trumped a warm bed and a shower, even mourning a dead ex-lover, but not by much.
“Really, I’m sorry he’s dead, but you know… That’s life, right? Here today…” Tyre rubbed a finger over his bottom lip.
“Quit while you’re ahead. I’ll work for you, but I want one-fifty, and the cash up front—and pizza, and a phone charger.” I burped with beer-cracker reflux. The pizza wasn’t sounding so good now. My head pounded.
“Broke?”
“Yeah, my landlord is an ass. The building just clicked over thirty years, and now it’s not under low-income regulations. He’s going to squeeze us all out by raising the rent because he’s got a buyer. I need to find a new place before I starve to death.”
“Jules has a charger behind the bar. You can eat with the band. Their order needs to get placed ASAP anyway. You can lift the cash out of the drop.”
I glanced over Tyre’s shoulder. Clove-smoke guy wassitting like a frigging leather god, his endless legs sprawled, and his arms draped over a booth top as if he owned the place. I swallowed and forced myself to stop staring.
What was wrong with me? My ex was probably in the city morgue, and I was eyeing club candy. Clove-smoke got up and strode onto the dance floor, his smooth gait sexy as hell. I turned my focus back to Tyre, flipping my hair back to get his attention before he looked over his shoulder to see what I was so interested in. “Give me the nine on Gentry’s drop. I did one once for you, a while back. Same plan?”
Tyre narrowed his eyes in that I-know-you’re-changing-the-subject-but-I-don’t-care look. “The bank is different. Jules closes, I count, pass you the drop, you make the run to the credit union, and we all go home.”
“Credit union, huh? Offhand, why don’t you do the bank runs yourself?” The laundering scheme played in my head like a wash and spin cycle. How Tyre remained so clean had a lot to do with how squeaky his money stayed.
“Cameras, sweets. I don’t look handsome on bank security feeds,” Tyre said, sitting back with a bleached-toothed smirk.
“Fine. Where do I get the cash for the band’s food?”
“Jules has it covered. The order will come to the stage door. You can grab their leftovers or order yourself a salad.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Yeah, so shoot me some pussy sometime,” he said, sliding out of the booth with another toothy grin. I swallowed, holding down both the beer and the snappy comeback.
CHAPTER THREE
The band was maybe halfway through their set. After dropping off my phone with Jules to charge, I walked around the edge of the dance floor. The bouncer rooted himself in my path before recognizing the get-the-hell-out-of-my-way look that works surprisingly often. I hauled myself up the staircase on shaky legs. God, I felt like twice-warmed takeout. Maybe I was getting the flu. The grocery store shift from hell was rubbing bone, but my next shift wasn’t until the day after tomorrow. Blissful sleep of the dead was in my future—well, hopefully not totally dead, just the good kind of sleep. Damn it, how could Gentry be dead?
A guy in a ripped T-shirt sporting an orange Signet lanyard gave me a cursory glance as I walked down the short hall. The walls were the standard splotchy black, but the place had a funky stink to it, like unwashed socks crusted in fresh dirt with old grass clippings heaped on top. I swung open the door to the dressing room, and Clove-smoke was leaning over another man in a chair. He had one hand on theguy’s shoulder, and was licking the man’s neck with an impossibly long pink tongue.
I was right. His pants were leather.
The blond guy in the chair grimaced, but he didn’t look tied up. I had no clue why he wasn’t getting up. It was weirder than his expensive black business suit.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Suit doesn’t look like he’s having a good time, so maybe back off?” I said, lifting my chin, ready for a fight.
Mr. Clove-smoke slowly straightened up to a gargantuan height. The guy could easily play basketball. His full lips widened into a smile or a growl. I couldn’t tell which because of the goddamned sunglasses. My driving instinct to run over and rip them off was curtailed by the rising hairs on my arms as the temperature in the room dropped.
Clove-smoke rushed at me with the fluid motion of a panther, sending my heart into my throat. But he stopped an arm’s length away, his shoulders squared as if he expected me to move out of his way. I froze, imagining running fingers along his bristled jaw and over his velvet rose bottom lip. Then his scent of spicy musk mixed with stale smoke punched me. Bile burned up my throat.
Choking, I doubled over and, with a gut-wrenching screech, spewed cheddar cracker slime over the guy’s scuffed black boots.
He glanced down, then up, his eyebrows rising above the frames of the sunglasses.
“Holy crap, that’s never happened before,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I didn’t dare look at him as I grabbed a sketchy towel someone had tossed on the back of the couch.
“You mean, the other times you missed the boots?” His accent made his words elongate, the S’s smashing togetherlike a serpent hissing. English was not his first language. Maybe Russian? I glanced at him, and his glasses reflected my wide-eyed cringing.
“Yeah, other times,” I said, using the towel to wipe down the front of my shirt. My stomach clenched as I glanced at the suited man, who hadn’t moved. “You okay?”
“Help me,” Mr. Suit squeaked, his brown eyes glassy with tears. I whirled back to face the towering leather god who was standing in a pool of my vomit.
