whole self… no men? When he didn’t reply and looked from her house to her, she wished she had never asked. She felt like an idiot.
“It’s not a big deal.” Becky gave him a small smile. “I’m sure you have things to do. Thanks again for what you did.” She started to turn toward her house, but his words stopped her.
“I could use a beer.”
******
As Sloan stood in the small living room watching Becky getting him a beer, he cursed himself. What in the fuck was he doing? It was as if his mouth had a fucking mind of its own. “I could use a beer?” What in the hell was that and where in the fuck did it come from?
“Here you go.” Becky handed him a Busch beer, which he must have glared at. “Sorry, I know it’s not a Budw—”
“It’s fine.” He took a drink, doing his best not to make the famous bitter beer face. It tasted like cold piss. “Thank you.”
“So what are you doing on this side of the river?” Becky asked, sitting down on her couch with a bottle of water.
Sloan leaned against the wall, holding his piss beer. “This is one of the areas we patrol” was his only explanation. He didn’t know the meaning of the words small talk.
“Oh, what do you patrol for?” Becky asked, then took a drink of water.
“Bad guys.” He grinned at her disappointed frown. She’d wanted juicy details, but he wasn’t going to give them to her.
“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” Becky finally said after a moment of awkward silence.
“No, I don’t.” Sloan decided to finish off his beer before it got warm. In all honesty, if it tasted like cold piss already, he was afraid of what it might taste like warm. In one long swallow, he finished it off. Becky stood to take the empty bottle.
“You want another one?” Becky tossed the empty bottle in the trash.
“I’m good, thanks.” Sloan cringed at the thought of drinking another one. He had noticed how empty her refrigerator was when she had retrieved his beer, and her place was a shithole, but he also knew this area and her rent probably wasn’t cheap. He pulled out his wallet, grabbed some bills, and placed them on her table.
Becky had turned to see him do it. “What is that?” She frowned when Sloan remained silent. “Listen, I don’t take handouts. I may live in a shithole…”
Sloan grinned at her words that described exactly what he thought of her rental house.
“…and be low on food, but I make do.”
“It’s not a handout.” Sloan refused to take the money back that she kept pushing at him. He watched as she looked down at his jeans pocket, then looked into his eyes. He knew his expression was daring her to try to shove the money in his pocket. “It’s a pay advance, and believe me, you will earn every penny.”
“A pay advance?” Becky’s voice changed as she looked at the money. “Are you sure?”
“I do nothing I’m not sure about,” Sloan replied, knowing that was a fucking lie. He sure didn’t know why he was standing inside his secretary’s house. It was time to get the hell out of there. He nodded and headed toward the door. “Thanks for the beer.”
“You’re welcome.” Becky followed him. “Thank you for everything. I really mean it. I know I went a little nutso—again, blame it on the hair—but I do appreciate what you’ve done and for the job. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Sloan walked out the door and to his bike. He threw his hand up, not looking back at her. His eyes once again went to the bar. The locks on her doors needed to be replaced. A strong wind could break them. Climbing onto his bike, he fought not to look back at her, but his eyes won the battle. His eyes met hers as she stood in the doorway and gave him a wave. Rolling his bike backwards, he finally looked away as he took off down her street, her words of “I promise you won’t be sorry” following him. He had a feeling he was going to be very fucking sorry.
Chapter 9
Katrina hurried to the warehouse,
“It’s not a big deal.” Becky gave him a small smile. “I’m sure you have things to do. Thanks again for what you did.” She started to turn toward her house, but his words stopped her.
“I could use a beer.”
******
As Sloan stood in the small living room watching Becky getting him a beer, he cursed himself. What in the fuck was he doing? It was as if his mouth had a fucking mind of its own. “I could use a beer?” What in the hell was that and where in the fuck did it come from?
“Here you go.” Becky handed him a Busch beer, which he must have glared at. “Sorry, I know it’s not a Budw—”
“It’s fine.” He took a drink, doing his best not to make the famous bitter beer face. It tasted like cold piss. “Thank you.”
“So what are you doing on this side of the river?” Becky asked, sitting down on her couch with a bottle of water.
Sloan leaned against the wall, holding his piss beer. “This is one of the areas we patrol” was his only explanation. He didn’t know the meaning of the words small talk.
“Oh, what do you patrol for?” Becky asked, then took a drink of water.
“Bad guys.” He grinned at her disappointed frown. She’d wanted juicy details, but he wasn’t going to give them to her.
“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” Becky finally said after a moment of awkward silence.
“No, I don’t.” Sloan decided to finish off his beer before it got warm. In all honesty, if it tasted like cold piss already, he was afraid of what it might taste like warm. In one long swallow, he finished it off. Becky stood to take the empty bottle.
“You want another one?” Becky tossed the empty bottle in the trash.
“I’m good, thanks.” Sloan cringed at the thought of drinking another one. He had noticed how empty her refrigerator was when she had retrieved his beer, and her place was a shithole, but he also knew this area and her rent probably wasn’t cheap. He pulled out his wallet, grabbed some bills, and placed them on her table.
Becky had turned to see him do it. “What is that?” She frowned when Sloan remained silent. “Listen, I don’t take handouts. I may live in a shithole…”
Sloan grinned at her words that described exactly what he thought of her rental house.
“…and be low on food, but I make do.”
“It’s not a handout.” Sloan refused to take the money back that she kept pushing at him. He watched as she looked down at his jeans pocket, then looked into his eyes. He knew his expression was daring her to try to shove the money in his pocket. “It’s a pay advance, and believe me, you will earn every penny.”
“A pay advance?” Becky’s voice changed as she looked at the money. “Are you sure?”
“I do nothing I’m not sure about,” Sloan replied, knowing that was a fucking lie. He sure didn’t know why he was standing inside his secretary’s house. It was time to get the hell out of there. He nodded and headed toward the door. “Thanks for the beer.”
“You’re welcome.” Becky followed him. “Thank you for everything. I really mean it. I know I went a little nutso—again, blame it on the hair—but I do appreciate what you’ve done and for the job. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Sloan walked out the door and to his bike. He threw his hand up, not looking back at her. His eyes once again went to the bar. The locks on her doors needed to be replaced. A strong wind could break them. Climbing onto his bike, he fought not to look back at her, but his eyes won the battle. His eyes met hers as she stood in the doorway and gave him a wave. Rolling his bike backwards, he finally looked away as he took off down her street, her words of “I promise you won’t be sorry” following him. He had a feeling he was going to be very fucking sorry.
Chapter 9
Katrina hurried to the warehouse,
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