Page 8 of Forged

The Angry Tortillais a food truck about two blocks from the game and one of my favorites. It’s open late, lit by strung up light bulbs and has a menu with only seven items. It’s simple and delicious.

We walk side by side and Lars asks, “Do you normally walk this by yourself at night?”

“Sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t be walking in this area with what I know is in your handbag.”

I chuckle, pulling up my top, revealing my holstered pistol at my side. “Don’t worry, Lars. Playing cards isn’t the only thing my father taught me to do.”

His eyes sparkle. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Once we reach the truck, we place our orders. Steak for him, barbacoa for me. I reach for my purse when the man inside the truck gives us the total. Lars places his hand on my arm as he extends an unmistakable black AMEX with his other.

“Don’t you dare.”

He could’ve said ‘on me’ or ‘oh no, allow me,’ but instead hegives a command that makes me drop my hands. He notices the movement and simply grins.

The cook hands us our food, and we take our trays to a tiny metal table. Lars sits across from me, forearms braced on the edge, eyes fixed on me like I’m another poker hand he intends to win.

God help me.

I take a bite of my taco, and his eyes follow the juices as they run down my wrist.

“It’s rude to stare,” I say.

“I’m not staring. I’m studying. You’re an interesting subject, Neomi.”

My thighs press together instantly.Studying. Somehow, when he says the word, it’s the filthiest thing anyone’s ever said over barbacoa.

“Studying what exactly?” I challenge him.

“You,” he says, so matter of fact that I nearly choke. “Trying to figure out if you’re better at cards or manipulation.”

A laugh slips past my lips. “Why can’t it be both?”

“Oh, I think it is,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But one of them is probably more dangerous than the other.”

“And which one do you think it is?”

His eyes drop briefly to my mouth. “Still deciding.”

Feral need. There’s no other way to describe what twists low in my stomach.

I lean forward, licking a bit of salsa from my thumb just to watch what it does to him. His jaw ticks. His hand curls around his water bottle.

“Relax,” I tease. “It’s just food.”

“That’s not the problem.” His voice scrapes low. “The problem is you know exactly what you’re doing.”

He’s right, I do. But I didn’t expect it to work this well. It should be just tacos, but it’s suddenly become a sensual experience.

“Tell me something, Lars,” I say, opening the foil wrapped around my second taco. “Are you always this…intense?”

His hands pause, his eyes still on me. “Only when I want something.”

“And what is it that you want?”

There’s a beat where the air thickens, the street noise fades, and the whole damn city disappears, and there’s only his gaze left in the moonlight.