Page 5 of King's Barber

“You a BMW guy?”

“I’m a nice car guy.” He shook his head. “Please don’t touch anything with your grubby hands.”

“I don’t fucking have grubby hands.” I stared down at my palms, as clean as any biker’s, which I guessed wasn’t as nice as someone like Quain would want in his expensive car. “How far away does this guy live anyway?”

“Vert Island.”

“Jesus Christ, you fucking a rich old dude or something?”

Quain snorted. “Just sit there and shut up, Luke.”

I grunted. Leaning forward, I turned up the music. It wasn’t the shit I liked to listen to, but anything was better than having a boring conversation with Mr. Prissy Pants. I liked that. That would be his name from now on. Or maybe Prince Prissy Pants was better. Yep, much better.

My gaze slid to the ring on his necklace again, and I was tempted to ask him why he wore it but pursed my lips instead. I could live without knowing.