Page 84 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
I smell Gaz’s influence here.
Even though I want nothing more than to run away from this, Gaz is my only clue to getting Reba back thus far. He’s the only part of this equation that makes any sense.
Gaz’s eyes drift up to find Grainger’s, just before Grainge pulls out the chair between me and my brother and takes a seat.
“You fucking her, too, or something?” Gaz asks, as crude as ever. I glance over to see if Grainger’s pissed off—because he usually is, about one thing or another—but instead, he just smiles. I’ve never seen that before, that expression on his face. It’s a hair trigger that smile, something that could snap and spring a trap at any moment. Ensnare Gaz. Destroy him.
Grainger leans forward, resting an arm on the edge of the table. His smile is like a guillotine. I’m mesmerized by the look of it. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Cade isn’t just a cranky thirty-something with a handsome face, and a leather vest. He’s dangerous. All four of them are.
“If I were, would it be any of your business?” he quips, running his big mouth. Reminds me of … well, me. Anyway, he may as well have just come out and said it, that’s how obvious his answer is.
I roll my eyes and pretend to be uninterested in a situation that’s quickly spiraling out of control. Didn’t Beast just tell us not to provoke my brother?
Gaz’s eyes narrow slightly, his hand tightening around his fork enough that the metal bends under the strain. Shit, Gram’s silver. It’s ruined now.
“Whore in training, just like I thought,” Gaz says in a conversational tone. He’s testing Cade right now, looking for a reaction. “How many guys you got on rotation, Gidge?”
“It’s Gidget,” I retort as Grainger tenses and coils like an animal preparing to strike. My hand drops down and I cup his crotch, causing that disturbing level of focus to swing my way. Nobody can see us, what with the tablecloth and all, as I carefully stroke the seam in his jeans, keeping his violence contained. “And four. I’ve got four on rotation.”
It’s a flippant comment, so flippant that Gaz takes it as satire.
He sits back in his chair and sneers at me. There’s a look to him that I don’t like, as if he knows so much more than he should. I think about that girl, about Rhea Bundy or whatever her name was, and how much she looked like me.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Nellie asks suddenly, lifting her gaze to stare at Cade. She briefly flicks her attention my way, asking questions that I obviously can’t answer at the moment. Also, I’m pretty sure she’s pleading with me to keep the mark on her wrist to myself. My mother loves her son, even if he hates her.
“Why the hell not?” Grainger replies, leaning back in his own chair. He can’t seem to resist the challenge of placing his arm across the back of mine, teasing my hair with his fingers. I snatch a plate and start filling it with food. Then I shove it in front of Cade.
“Eat,” I growl out under my breath, hoping the food will distract him.
Grainger does as I asked, using his left hand to pick up a piece of bacon. His right arm remains where he put it.
Nellie—Mom, I want to try calling her Mom, I think—sets two mugs of coffee down on the table in front of us. Grainger actually surprises me by thanking her, and then goes about adding cream and sugar in generous amounts.
It annoys me that I like my coffee the same way.
Breakfast becomes this silent dance of glances and glares, of clinking silverware and the gentle clatter of porcelain as mugs are picked up and set back down. It’s pure hell. It’s also a very telling sort of moment.
Gaz doesn’t come over for breakfast. Ever. Yesterday morning, we interviewed his favorite hooker.
He knows. Grainger knows he knows. Also, as soon as he finishes his bacon, Cade slides his phone from his pocket and starts sending messages.
Eventually, Nellie gets up and leaves, taking some of the dishes with her.
“Does Cat know you spend your time looking into the girls I fuck?” Gaz queries, trying to sound casual. In reality, his voice is thick with anger and his eyes keep darting to me.
“Oh, you know,” Grainger says, using a fork to poke at the eggs on his plate. “It’s not unusual. You have poor taste, and we need to be ready to clean up your messes at a moment’s notice.” He lifts those umber eyes of his up to stare at my brother, his pupils dilated, fingers twitching against my shoulder.
“What about her messes, huh?” Gaz questions, cocking his head to one side and crossing his arms over his broad chest. He looks formidable. He can throw a hell of a punch, that’s for sure. But my brother is nothing up against the power of the four men I’ve welcomed into my confidence. Nothing. He must know that.
