Page 17 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

A wkward silence—or as silent as it can be in Manhattan—fills the space between us as we walk down the sidewalk toward the small café. “You don’t like the cold, do you?”

“What gave it away?” she grumbles, grabbing the door of the café. I chuckle when an audible breath of relief falls from her lips as we walk inside.

I’m immediately surprised by the girliness.

It’s like Barbie threw up in here. The walls and ceiling are all baby pink.

Black-and-white striped parasols hang from the ceiling along with crystal chandeliers.

Small square tables are scattered randomly throughout, with the crème-colored upholstered chairs around them.

And flowers…they’re artificial, but holy shit there’s a lot of them.

And me? I stick out like a sore thumb in my ripped jeans and leather jacket. Well, actually, no jacket right now, and that’s probably worse. I’m the bloodstain on their lacy doilies.

“I should’ve been born in a tropical climate,” she admits as we make our way to the wood counter. “I’ve never handled the cold very well.”

“Could be because there are five-year-olds bigger than you,” I tease with a grin, hoping to set her at ease.

“I am perfectly normal-sized, thank you,” she huffs with narrowed eyes.

“Sure you are. If normal is pint-sized. Or bite-sized.” I waggle my brows.

“Okay, pretty boy, easy on the innuendo. I think you’ve had enough of that for a few hours, don’t you?”

No. No, I don’t. Because I want her.

Behind the counter is a guy, maybe a couple of years younger than me, wearing a pale blue, long-sleeved tee with the store logo across the front.

When Poppy reaches the counter, a wide smile spreads across his face.

“Looking good today, Poppy.” His blue eyes trail over her as if he’s trying to see what lies beneath the layers.

Then he spots me behind her, and the wide smile falters. “The usual?”

“Thanks, Tom, and yes, the usual, please.” The smile she gives him is warm and genuine. My gut twists again with that unwanted, unexpected sensation.

So what if she’s smiling at him? It shouldn’t matter to me. It doesn’t matter to me.

“What about your friend?”

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “It’s on me,” I tell her.

Surprise winds through me when she doesn’t argue. “Far be it from me to refuse free food.”

“That wasn’t your reaction the other night,” I remind her with a grin.

“That was when I thought a weirdo creep was trying to pay, and I was caught off-guard when I realized it was you.”

“But then you realized it was the guy you wanted to taste your tonsils?” I add the last part for Tom’s benefit, enjoying the way his face twists with disgust.

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with danger. “I’m going to remove your balls.”

“You don’t have to remove them. Say the word, and I’ll let you play with them right now.” I chuckle and hand Tom my card. He glares at it, not taking it, as if he doesn’t want to touch something I have. Sucks for him. I’ve already touched the girl he’s drooling over.

I dip down, placing my mouth next to her ear. “Do you and the barista have something going on?”

Over the years, I’ve been with my fair share of girls and women, but I always promised myself I’d steer clear of Casey’s friends.

She doesn’t have many and struggles to make them because she’s so damn shy.

And, even if she doesn’t say it, I know she is a little insecure about her friendships with Lily and Ashleigh because they are with her dad and pseudo-uncle.

This family makes my head hurt.

For inexplicable reasons, I struggle to apply the same rules to the girl in front of me. I suppose it’s a good thing she seems to have more self-control than I do. I guess if she were Graham’s ex, it would make a difference.

Nah. That wouldn’t mean a damn thing.

“No. Nothing is going on. Why would you think that?” Her mouth puckers thoughtfully, and my mind gets dragged back right where it came from.

“Because he looked at me like he wanted to jump over the counter,” I say, forcing myself to meet her eyes.

“He did not.” She shoves a shoulder into my arm with a giggle.

“Oh, he did. I wouldn’t advise it, either.” Her face falls, and she takes a step away from me as her attention jumps to my jaw.

It’s not the first time her attention has gone to the injuries she helped attend. But it is the first time I’ve seen concern. Not for me, but for the man behind the counter.

I don’t like it. Not the worry she feels for the barista, and not the way she looks at me like I’m a loose cannon. It was a cage fight. Yes, I went too far. Couldn’t see beyond the foggy haze clouding my mind, but it’s the norm for The 7th Circle.

Our order is set on the counter before I can comment on her reaction. I take the two drinks and the white paper sack. “Eating here?”

Her head bobs, that fiery hair swishing around her shoulders from under her knitted hat. “This way.”

I follow her over the black-and-white tiles to a table next to the window. The paper sack goes in the middle of the table, and I set a drink on each side. I feel awkward as fuck when I fold myself into the tiny, delicate chair.

“Okay. Now that we’re semi-private, why don’t you just ask me about my face?” It’s time to tell the truth and let her know her identity isn’t secret. She reaches into the bag, retrieves a frittata, and passes it to me. “Thank God,” I mumble. “I was terrified this would be some type of pastry.”

Her slender hand reaches into the bag and pulls out another frittata. “You don’t like pastries?”

“Not a fan of sweets,” I admit, sipping the hot drink. My face draws into a frown. “Spoke too soon.” I set the hot mocha on the table.

“Next time, order for yourself.”

Next time. Why do I like the sound of that?

I pick up the muffin-shaped egg dish and take a bite. Not bad . “Back to what I said. Just ask me what happened. You know you want to.”

“I assure you, I have no interest in knowing what happened to your face.”

“Oh, come on. It’s only human to be curious. And you keep looking. Just ask.”

Her cheeks turn cherry as she drops her attention to her food as if it’s a fascination. “I really don’t want to know.” Her eyes lift just enough to stare at me from beneath her long lashes, darting to the mottled flesh again. “I apologize for staring, but I’m not interested in knowing the details.”

“I can’t help but wonder why?”

“Why what?”

“Why, when I’ve had my tongue down your throat, don’t you want to know?”

“I’ve already told you it’s not my business. I’m also not nosy. A kiss doesn’t nullify that.”

“We both know it was more than just a kiss, or if you hadn’t slammed on the brakes, it would’ve been. Do you know what I think?”

“Tell me, oh, wise one, what do you think?”

“I think you already know what happened.”

She scratches the tip of her nose, her eyes darting behind me. “Obviously, I couldn’t possibly know.”

There it is. The overt lie. I wonder if the little nose scratch is a tell.

I should let it go, but I’m tired, hungover, and a little annoyed.

The residual effects of my nightmare and life in general are making me contrary and seditious.

Plus, as hypocritical as it makes me, I hate liars.

“You’d know if you were there.” Her eye twitches, and a hint of panic passes through her eyes, now more gold and brown than green.

The argument is on her tongue, but I don’t allow her to lie anymore.

“Especially if you were the one who helped clean up the damage.”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.

” She rubs the tip of her nose again. Definitely her little tell.

“Why would you think…I mean, why would I—” She presses her fingers against her temple, a war playing behind her eyes.

Then she exhales, defeated. “How did you figure it out?”

Because I looked harder than I should’ve.

“A mask that covers a couple of inches above and below your eyes doesn’t disguise much,” I chuckle.

“It still doesn’t make sense. You saw me once at the restaurant.”

She made an impression. From the copper flames on her head to her chameleon eyes to the dimples in her cheeks, I couldn’t forget her.

Not in a few days. And the more we run into each other, the harder it is to stop thinking about her.

It’s a problem I need to fix because even now, I can feel my fascination growing.

Maybe it’s the way I’m able to get a reprieve from the other shit in my mind when I’m around her.

It could be the intrigue of having something you shouldn’t want—can’t have.

Or it might just be that she’s a new face.

Not one of the same girls I’ve seen off and on most of my life, because, except for Casey, it’s obvious we don’t travel in the same social circles.

But none of that feels right either. It seems too simple and shallow. This woman has had my attention since the restaurant. Confidence. Sharp wit. Unafraid to call my bullshit. All of it makes her an appealing… Distraction.

But I’m not about to tell her any of that. “I have a good memory.” Not a lie. My memory is excellent as long as I don’t give myself chemical amnesia.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she hisses.

“Truth?”

“No, asshole, lie to me.”

I grin widely at her snark. “We really didn’t know each other that night at the fights. I figured it would make you uncomfortable if you realized I recognized you.”

“But you could’ve said something after the ballet.”

I lift a brow. “So could you.”

“Touché, asshole.”

“I was giving you a chance to confess.”

“I couldn’t.” Her eyes widen, and she reaches across the table, grabbing my hand. “You can’t tell anyone at the club. I need that job. Shit.” She jerks away from me, scrubbing both hands down her face. “And if the ballet company finds out—”

“Don’t worry.” I cut her off to stop her mini-meltdown. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”