Page 9 of Saxon

Fuck, this chick.

Fuck this chick.

I'd like to fuck this chick.

Record scratch—back up. No. Nope.

I don't.

I can't.

I won't.

Okay, real talk…I do, I can, and more than likely, I will. I just shouldn't.

I don't need the complication. I'm already up to my eyeballs in complications, and the last thing I need is a short stack with a thick, juicy ass and a temper as fiery as her bottle-red scarlet hair getting all up in my shit, getting needy and talking shit and making me want shit I can't fucking have.

I stare down at her, feeling my lips twitch. Whether they're twitching with laughter or a nervous tic because she's so fucking nuts is anyone's guess.

"No. I don't have any Tic-Tacs. Jesus fuck."

"What? My breath is gnarly. Too much coffee and I forgot my toothbrush."

I blink down at her. "I just incapacitated four men, violently. And you're worried about your breath?"

She shrugs. "Listen, Mr. Tall, Blond, and Hot-As-Fuckballs, I don't know if you're not picking this up about me or something, but I ain't exactly a fainting daisy over here, yeah?" Her Boston accent, which is as thick as her ass is round, turns "over here" into “ovah heeyah” and it is—if I'm being honest with myself—hot.

"I'm picking that up."

She nods like I've said something wise. "Good. So you can stop being shocked every time I don't faint when you do something violent. Which I'm guessing is gonna be frequent, amiright?"

"Seems likely, yeah."

She huffs into her hand again and wrinkles her nose. "I wish you had a Tic-Tac or gum. I could knock out a Southie longshoreman from a hundred yards." Yaahhhhds.

I pat my pockets. "Fresh out, I'm afraid."

"Well, Emily will just have to suffer the wrath of my halitosis, then. Come on. Before your mafia friends call in for reinforcements."

"They're not my friends, and they already have."

She bursts into motion, shoving open the doors and hauling me through them. "You gotta learn about sarcasm, Saxy-boy," she mutters under her breath. Out loud and very loudly, she announces to the three people in the room: "Sorry I'm late, but I had to find a very important date. And then there was an incident. Anyway. Where's Em?"

A side door cracks open. "Here. Took you long enough HOLY SHIT YOU FOUND THE HOTTEST MAN IN BOSTON."

I suppress a smirk—or I try to, unsuccessfully.

The groom, a man of medium height and slender build with brown hair in a neat side part, frowns at me, and then at his bride. "He's not that hot, Jesus, woman. He's so fuckin' hot, marry him."

I shrug. "Sorry, man. I'm just here because this fuckin' nutjob literally dragged me in. And because she said there'd be food."

He glances at Terra, blinks twice, and then looks back at me. "Yeah, that sounds about right." Back to Terra, then. "I thought we discussed this, Terra. We don't kidnap strangers."

Terra sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry. "That was one fucking time, Tommy. I was high, drunk, and horny, and for the record, he wasn't exactly protesting."

"You had your hand on his cock," Tommy shoots back. "Of course he wasn't. He knew he was about to get his brains fucked out." He shakes his head. "The point is, you accosted a man on the sidewalk, stuck your hand down his pants, grabbed his junk, hauled him into the bar bathroom, fucked him, and left him there. The poor dumb fuck never knew what hit him."

"And more's the luck for him," Terra says. "By the time I was done with him, he didn't know which way was up. He'll remember that for the rest of his life. I did him a favor, the way I see it."