Page 16 of Privilege

Chapter Thirteen

Dane

If she were anyone else’s girl I’d be doing everything in my power to steal her, up to and including kidnapping.

I stare at her openly while she devours her plate of crab legs.

I’d sent us in the direction of Montauk instead of East Hampton and she’d screeched to a halt in front of a diner attached to a gas station.

Normally I’d have reservations about eating food with a side of petroleum, but with her hair swept back and her pink cheeks all windburned beneath her freckles, I felt helpless .

I can’t even remember the last time I ate real food with a woman on this fucking island.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Evelyn eat, come to think of it.

But here’s Cara, on her second plate of all-you-can-eat crab legs after a mammoth basket of onion rings, and all I can think about is spreading her open right here in this booth until the vinyl seat has become a slip n’ slide.

She notices me staring at her and pauses, the bottom of her flimsy paper bib fluttering in the breeze from the open windows.

Worried she’ll stress out about actually eating food, I open my mouth to say something, to head it off, but she smiles at me—a fifteen-thousand megawatt smile—and I’m not sure what’s pounding more: my dick, or my heart.

“My dad always takes me to places like this,” she says.

I wait for the snark, the snideness, the something-that-indicates-her-daddy-issues moment, but it doesn’t come. If anything, she looks wistful.

“He’s… alright?” Wow, I have no fucking clue what to say to someone with a wholesome family.

“He’s a trucker. We spend a lot of time in places like this. You sort of get a feel for what ones will fill your belly for two days on twenty bucks, and what ones will make you wish you were dead.”

I side-eye her. “I hope this is the former.”

She points a crab leg at me. “You’re a risk-taker. I’ve built up a tolerance to grease and botulism. Could go either way for you.”

“It’s a nice change to see a woman eat something other than lemon water and cocaine.”

She doesn’t even look sheepish about it. If anything, she sits up a little taller. Like she’s proud of herself.

Good girl.

Ah, shit.

“How’s it going over here?” the server asks. He’s a stocky dude, all chest and no neck, and has checked on us at least four times already.

“She’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

He ignores me. “Are you a local?” he asks.

I force myself not to physically roll my eyes. He’s obviously a Montauk lifer, and knows she isn’t. This place isn’t big enough to not know someone. This is the worst pick up I’ve ever witnessed.

“Nope,” she says politely, but dismissively. She pulls off her paper napkin and tosses it onto the now empty plate with a huge sigh before slumping back in her seat. “How far is the drive back to Blackstone?”

No-Neck turns to me, eyes narrowing. “The Blackstone?”

Cara frowns and cocks her head at me. “The Blackstone? I thought it was just Blackstone.”

Lego Boy’s shoulders would rise if he had a neck to raise them around. Tension solidifies around the table like bacon fat.

“You’re Bill Pritchard’s son,” he says.

“The one and only.”

Cara sits up and smiles at the server, but the warm edge she had when she was talking about her dad is gone. “I’ll take the bill, please,” she says.

He ignores her. “Your family cost us a lot of jobs around here.” He cracks his knuckles. “That factory employed half this town.”

Dear old dad bought the old industrial district a block away from here. He plans to demolish it, put up condos with a water view. Because everyone wants more Airbnbs.

It is definitely time to go.

I flip open my wallet, pull out two hundred-dollar bills, and a thick cream business card. “Register your complaints with Easton and Associates. For the class action,” I say, sliding it across the table. “Keep the change.”

I stand and give Cara the slightest of nods but she’s already scrambling to her feet. She eyes the cash on the table and chews her lip; I know she wants to pay, at least for her half, but she says nothing. I appreciate a woman who knows when not to pick a fight.

We turn to leave but the server steps into Cara’s path. My jaw snaps shut, spine ramrod straight.

“What are you doing with this asshole?” he says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at me.

And I have to hand it to her, never hath a lady been less in need of saving. She squares her shoulders, looks him right in the face and says, “Getting crabs.”

I can’t help it—I crack the fuck up. Cara steps to the side, eyes sparkling, as she maneuvers around him and links arms with mine.

We beeline for the exit, my ribs ache from holding in silent laughter, and the reassuring squeeze of her hand on my forearm has me wondering if I shouldn’t steal her anyway, even if she is Rich’s girl.

“Hey!” someone shouts.

“Fucks sake,” I mutter, disentangling from Cara and shoving her behind me. “What? What? ”

The entire kitchen staff have dropped their aprons ready to throw fishy-smelling fists with me here in the parking lot.

I sigh. “I’m tired, okay? I’ve had a lot to drink, and been in the sun all day, and I’d really like to finish my afternoon with a swim and a handjob. So can we assume I said enough things that offend you that you throw the punch? Skip the posturing and get straight to the fighting?”

The bigger boys up front exchange glances.

“I don’t have all day.”

Cara’s hand plants itself firmly on my forearm again. “Dane, I don’t think—”

But the server lunges forward, ducks his head like the superhero dude with the rock helmet and slams into my torso with his meaty shoulder. I stumble backwards and accidentally clip Cara with my back, who falls off-balance and hits the car with a thud I could have heard from Prague.

NO.

I hear something come out of my mouth but I don’t know if it’s words or snarls.

I set my weight, pull back my arm, and snap two lightning-fast jabs into his face.

The first, judging by the sickening crunch, breaks his nose.

The second sends his jaw sideways like a cartoon, and he crumples to the pavement in a heap. Lights out.

I stare at the rest of them, chest heaving, but they throw up their hands and shake their heads. I watch out of the corner of my eye to make sure they’re all headed inside and away from Cara, before turning my attention back to her.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She’s wincing, rubbing her hip a little. “Clearly money doesn’t buy friends,” she mutters.

I smile, a little wryly, as she limps over to the driver’s side and gets in. I reach for the passenger door handle when someone clears their throat. A pimply kid in the telltale rubber gloves of a dishwasher is hovering nervously near his pile of a friend.

“He’ll be fine,” I say gently. “He’ll wake up in a few minutes. Get him to ice that jaw.”

The kid nods and squats down, his face worried. Whether he’s concerned with his friend’s health or simply not sure how he’s going to carry an unconscious sack of cement blocks back inside is unclear .

I pull my aviators off my shirt and stick them back on. Cara starts the car, the rumble low and familiar, and I turn my head towards the kid.

“Make sure he uses that business card,” I say.

Cara pulls out onto the main road and chews her bottom lip like she has questions, but to my surprise she takes a big breath, her bare, freckled chest rising and then falling dramatically in one big swoop, and instead reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a twenty.

She holds it in front of my face, tucked neatly between her first and middle finger.

“Just the tip,” she says.

I shake with laughter the whole way home.