Page 17 of Property of Grifter
Scorpion smirks.“I’m not trading my helmet for a witch hat, Prez.”
Even C cracked a grin, though his eyes were still cautious.“You sure about this, brother?Small town like this… they don’t forget easy.”
I glance back at Georgia’s house.I can see the faint outline of Georgia’s curtains fluttering, like someone had been standing there.It makes me grin.Did she see me throw down with that Davis asshole?Her house looked peaceful and welcoming.Still, if this town had been running their tongues against Georgia, they’ve put her through hell.Bullets could hurt like hell and might take your life, but tongues wagging hate and evil could destroy a soul and this motherfucking place has probably been whispering about her for years.
“She’s mine,” I repeat once more.“Anyone who’s got a problem with that can take it up with me.”
Scorpion nods once.No one else says a word.
I swing my leg over my bike, the engine roaring beneath me.“Let’s go,” I yell.“We’ll find the assholes who thought they could take me down—and if that bastard Davis steps too close to Georgia again, I’ll make sure he remembers why men like him stay on their side of the line.”
I pull my shades down, rev the throttle of my bike, and shoot a final look at Georgia’s window.I’ll talk to my woman tonight and when I do, she’ll understand exactly who she belongs to.
I take a breath as we ride out onto the street.Engines thunder behind me as the Kings tear down the small road.Wind slaps my face, carrying the cool scent of fall weather and asphalt, That would usually relax me, but not today.Nothing can clear my head.Not the speed.Not the noise.Not even the burn in my shoulder.I can’t stop thinking about her.
Georgia Cutter.
The woman who’d survived a drive by and instead of crying and letting her fear swallow her whole, she’d patched me up, touching me as if I mattered—as if I was precious to her.I’ve been around long enough to know better.You can’t let yourself get attached to others in this world.Feelings for a woman can destroy you—get you killed.Claiming a woman left you open and put them in danger, too.It also gave a woman power to destroy you.I’ve seen it happen way too often.
None of that matters to me now.
Georgia softens the harsh world that I’ve lived in for way too long.She’s sweet and gentle—my complete opposite.Yet as soft as she was, there’s steel running through her too.It’s the quiet kind that’s forged in a fire.It speaks to me and makes my chest burn with the need to possess it, touch her and claim all that she is for my own.I’ve had women in my life—temporary, nameless and part of my lifestyle.Georgia is none of that.She’s the complete opposite and yeah, maybe she’s too good for my world, but I can’t help it.With her, the word mine left my mouth like a vow that was already written somewhere in the hands of time.
I shake my head, gripping the throttle harder.That cop, Davis, thought he knew Georgia.He actually thought he had a right to instruct me as to what my woman needed in her life.My lips curl and a snarl escapes.That fucker doesn’t know shit.What Georgia needs is me.I’m the man who will keep the world at bay for her.I won’t flinch when it turns ugly.I’ll make whatever tries to touch her regret ever entering her orbit.If this damn town wants to whisper about witches and curses, let them.I’ll burn this whole damn place to the ground.They’ll stare at me and know I’m the devil that is coming after them.They’ll never touch her again.Nothing will.
The road curves and I lean into it, my gaze briefly moving to the rolling hills that surround me.My men follow behind me and I give into the burning feeling in my gut that has been there ever since someone shot at me while Georgia was in harm’s way.By tonight, I’d have a plan to deal with the shooter, with Bo Ripley and the town andespeciallyOfficer Davis.I’d deal with it all and when the dust settles, I’ll make sure Georgia understands that I’m her man and no one, not this town, not the cops, not fate, a curse, or God Himself will ever take her away from me.
9GEORGIA
If there was evera day that I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole, this would be it—hands down.Why?Because somehow, someway, my grandmother—sweet little Nana, who baked cookies and whose worst habit to date was her bingo addiction had turned into my own personal fashion terrorist.
I stand in my bedroom holding the black dress I’d worn to Mrs.Pennington’s funeral last spring.High neckline, long sleeves, hem to the ankles—perfection.The kind of outfit that screamed don’t even think about touching me, Griffin.You can’t, I’m untouchable.That’s the message I wanted to get across.Nana doesnotagree.She eyes it like it has personally offended her.
“Good Lord, Georgie, you can’t wear that!You do and you’ll look like you’re headin’ to mourn the Pope, not going out on a date with a man who can melt any woman’s bloomers, not to mention he got himself shot shielding you in your driveway.He’s a hero and a walking wet dream.You cannot wear that.I won’t let you!”she huffs, stomping her foot.Where my Nana got all this energy and I don’t know, but selfishly I’m hoping it disappears before she kills me—or Griffin knocks me up.
“It’s not a date,” I remind her for the third time.“It’s dinner.It’s a dinner that I’m going to grudgingly but since I am, I need to discourage his interest.”
Nana doesn’t reply.Nope.She looks at me like I’m the crazy one, then she hums.That hum makes fear strike me deep in my heart.“Men like that don’t get discouraged, sweet pea.You could wear a burlap sack, and he’s still going to look at you like you’re Sunday dessert.”
I sigh, gathering my hair into a no-nonsense bun.“I think you’re totally wrong.So, this is my plan and I’m sticking to it.”
I could have just been talking to the moon outside my window, because Nana isn’t listening.She’s too busy rummaging through my closet with the energy of a woman half her age and the mischief of a teenager sneaking out after curfew.When she spins around—albeit while holding onto my closet door because she might have energy but she’s still old.Sadly, she’s holding the tiniest red skirt I’d ever seen.I swear it was no bigger than a napkin.I don’t even know where it came from!As I stare at it, I think it might be the skirt my mother wore before she left me here with Nana and disappeared with husband number seven.In fairness, it could have been eight or nine.Since I haven’t heard from her since she left my fourteen-year-old self here, I ceased to care a while back.
“Absolutely not,” I practically whine.“That thing’s indecent.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she argues, waving it in the air.“You’ve got good legs, might as well use’em now.”
I fold my arms.“Nana, I’m not using anything.I’m wearing something simple and appropriate.If you won’t agree to the dress, I can wear my favorite skirt.”I go to the closet, and she steps aside—albeit grudgingly.It only takes me a minute to find what I want.“This one!”I proclaim happily.I pull a long black skirt off a hanger and hold it up triumphantly.“See?It’s pretty and best of all, conservative.”
“I think the word you are looking for, Georgie, is antique.That thing looks older than I am,” she mutters while giving me a look that could curdle milk.Before I can respond, she grabs the skirt, whips out her sewing scissors, and begins snipping away at my favorite skirt in the whole world.I’m forced to just stand there and watch as sad little strips of fabric fall to the floor like raindrops into a mud puddle—useless and depressing.
“There,” she said, holding up what is now a mini skirt—just slightly longer than the red one she had.“Now it’s perfect!”
I stare at her in horror.“You cut it!You actually cut my favorite skirt!”
“Don’t fuss, Georgie.It’s just fabric,” she reasons.
“It’s ruined!”I snap.
