Page 14 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
The blond-haired, surfer looking "priest" grins at me, seeing right through my shit as he gently detaches the glass pot from my fingers. "Never used one of these machines before, huh?"
"No," I admit grudgingly, folding my arms under my breasts in a sulk. The consequence of that action propping them up to show more cleavage from the gaping neckline, or immediately drawing Colt's eyes is a pure coincidence, I swear to God.
Oops. Probably should stop swearing to God on lies, even inside my own head.
"Sit down and let me make it for you," Colt suggests, and I gratefully accept. I badly, badly need some coffee to help with the hangover and come-down I'm experiencing. Not to be dramatic, but this is probably the longest I’ve gone without alcohol or drugs in years.
Hell, I was even racking up lines on the bathroom sink during high school, so yeah. Years.
Just thinking about my borderline addictions is giving me the shakes, and I sit on my hands to hide them from view. Priests or secret agents, either way, I doubt these guys are into the whole party girl scene. Although it'd be hot as hell if they were. My money would be on Weston or Colt for drugs … probably Hawke for booze. He has that look about him that suggests he has a flask of whiskey stashed nearby.
I call them my borderline addictions, because I've seen true addiction plenty of times in my life. I don't have it. I just use the substances as a way to escape my own miserable existence.
“So, do you guys, like, work for the FBI or something?" I ask, tucking loose strands of hair behind one ear and trying not to admire Colt's ass. “And why are you all posing as priests? Like, couldn’t you just close the doors and say you’re renovating?” Even through the voluminous black priest robes, his ass is pretty fucking nice. In fact, his whole body is a treat. The ugly garment he's wearing can't hide the breadth of his shoulders or the smooth, easy way he moves. Like a predator. I've seen men like that before and they were nothing but bad news.
Unfortunately, I'm attracted to the worst of the worst.
That's why I ended up letting a rival mobster fuck me against a bathroom wall.
I close my eyes to block out the images of my terrible judgement and take a deep breath.
"Here." Colt hands me the cup of coffee, his spring green eyes taking me in with a single sweep. "It's pretty shitty coffee, but it'll do the trick." The edge of his mouth quirks up in a cocksure grin. I get the feeling he's a bit of a troublemaker. "Hawke insists that when we're camping a place, we keep costs down. Normally, there's this pricey Australian shit that I—"
"Wow, are you seriously talking the girl's ears off?" Weston asks, running his fingers through emerald green hair, his face still full of the piercings he was supposedly going to take off earlier. "Not every woman wants to see your dick: sometimes they prefer mine. Hell, what am I saying? They usually prefer mine."
"Right," I say, trying to hold back a laugh. This kind of stupid behavior isn't supposed to be cute and funny. And yet, I always fall for the wrong guys. Always. "Anyway, thanks for the coffee …" I trail off because I'm not exactly sure what the hell is going on here. I decide to just ask. There are certain things a girl learns growing up with a father who's the head of the Russian mob, and I strongly suspect they would want to know those things. "Am I allowed to leave? I wasn’t totally clear on what you all decided, but kind of got the feeling you’re not going to kill me today?”
"Eh," Colt says, exchanging a long look with Weston. "Not exactly."
My brows shoot up. “Not exactly going to kill me? That’s comforting.”
A grin pulls at his lips, and he shakes his head. “I meant, no you can’t leave.”
"So I'm a prisoner?" I continue, a hell of a lot calmer about this than most people would be. I mean, I'm wearing nothing but robes. I’ve got no panties, and I’m completely at the mercy of five giant, muscular men with knives and guns who know exactly who my dad is. My chances of getting out of here are not good. So why’s my heart pounding with excitement and my stomach knotting with the thrill of it all?
Then again, Hawke distinctly gives off that 'good guy' vibe, so maybe they won’t take advantage of my predicament.
And yet the guy you tried to fuck—Arsen—had his colleagues whipped into a frenzy because they thought he might kill you in the bathroom.
"Aaaaaand," Colt starts, making this elaborate gesture with his hands that ends with him pointing a finger at me. "Also not exactly."
