AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Nobody said Mac was a smartass,” he mutters under his breath.
“It’s angels rejoicing now that I know I’m a woman.”
One of the town’s many functional drunks, Timmy Hanson, strolls past on his way to the bathroom.
“Even people with shit for brains knew you were a woman.” He gives us both a You idiots or somethin’? look before continuing on his way.
I level Daniel with an expectant look. “Now that you’ve enlightened me as to what I am, maybe you can tell me more about why you think I can help you.”
Green eyes sweep over my face, but it’s not in the usual I’m gawking over your ugly-ass scars way. His survey of me feels almost reverent.
Shit. What the hell am I thinking? After meeting a handsome stranger with an undeniably dangerous vibe to him, I suddenly start thinking like a poet.
Gag.
I hold up a finger. “First off, you said your name was Daniel.”
He arches a brow. “There a problem with my name?”
I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I honestly expected something like Enrique or maybe Tito.” I cock my head to the side as a thought strikes me. “Or maybe that’s just because I haven’t had vodka in a while. Now that I think about it, a little bit of Tito’s sounds good.”
Exasperation lines his tone. “Do you even need me for this conversation?”
I make a tsking sound with my tongue. “Now, Danny. An attitude like that won’t get me to help you.”
A muscle in his stubbled jaw flickers. “It’s Daniel.”
“What’s your last name?”
There’s the briefest pause, as if he’s unsure of whether to offer it up. “Madrano.”
My gaze drifts to his lips when he says that. Madrano. Who knew I had a thing for accents? And for the slightly rolled r?
I give my head a little shake. Shit. Maybe I need to lay off the whiskey and stick to beer.
“Mexican? Puerto Rican?”
“Cuban.” His watchful gaze never leaves mine, as if he’s gauging my reaction.
“Huh.” I match his intent look with my own. “And you said you’re not with a cartel.”
His response is immediate but lined with more than a hint of impatience. “I’m not.”
“And you’re not a Fed.”
“No.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you are?” As an afterthought, I squint at how he’s dressed. “And why you decided to dress like a ninja.”
He lets out an irritated grunt. “This is how I usually dress.” His response comes from between gritted teeth. Aside from that, he also routinely surveys the bar, as if continuously assessing it for danger.
“Like a ninja.” I give a curt nod. “Got it. My question is, why?” I lean in a fraction, cupping my hand to the side of my mouth before I lower my voice to a faux whisper. “Because I hate to spoil it for you, but there’s not really a need for ninjas around here.”
His nostrils flare, and he pinches his eyes shut for the briefest moment. Probably to say a prayer to whatever god he worships.
I spy a small, fancy-looking medal lying below the base of his throat, bared by the top two shirt buttons left undone, against skin adorned with inked designs. I wonder who the hell Saint Germaine is.
Oooh, maybe that’s the saint of ninjas.
