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He screwed his face up. “Your job sounds horrible.”
I shook my head. “It’s not. I love it. The owners are my best friends. The guys who hang out there respect me. Those people have my back.”
It was when I’d left the bar that things had gone wrong. Psychos was my home. My family. I wouldn’t let Caleb ruin that for me. “There’s also a sex club behind a secret door.”
Vaughn suddenly seemed a whole lot more sober. “No fucking way.”
“Way. You should come sometime. Many a pussy just begging to be licked at that place.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Roach. I might just take you up on it.”
Heat flushed through me at the thought of watching Vaughn on his knees, face pressed between some woman’s thighs.
I went hotter again imagining it was my thighs.
“Why are your cheeks pink?”
“That’s just the light from outside.” I turned my back and went into the kitchenette and busied myself by rifling through my purse. I pulled out my phone and connected it to the charger, then scrolled through the list of notifications.
“Pink looks good on you, Roach. Much better than those bruises.” His voice dropped an octave. “Who did that to you? That asshole with the motorcycle?”
I blinked. “Fang? Fuck, no. He would never lay a finger on me.”
“He your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“He wants to be though.”
“Maybe.”
“He kill the guy who hit you?”
“He would if I told him who it was.”
“Why aren’t you?”
I put my coffee mug down hard on the countertop. “Because it’s not his fight. It’s mine.”
“You’re flea-sized.”
I glared at him, pissed off. “So? You think that’s going to stop me walking up to him and putting a bullet through his brain?”
Vaughn eyed me over his mug. “Good for you. Not letting you do that, of course. But I like the spunk.”
“Like you have a say in who I do or do not shoot.”
The words came out of my mouth and hung in the air between us before I really heard them. I stifled a laugh. “Not a sentence I ever thought I’d say, to be honest.”
Vaughn wasn’t laughing, but I ignored him. He sounded too much like Fang.
Being told I couldn’t do something was the best damn way to get me to prove I could.
I went back to my phone and hovered over an email preview from an attorney in Providence. The email was titled, Last Will and Testament of Bartholomew Weston. I glanced at Vaughn. “There’s an email here. It’s a copy of your dad’s will.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Why would you be getting that?”
“I’ve no idea.” I tapped on the attached document, skimming the paragraphs of tiny writing. I paused mid page, when my name appeared.