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And the spread of fried chicken and sides that had my mouth watering and my stomach growling.
Psycho stopped, and with my attention elsewhere, I nearly ran into him. I put my hands out on instinct, and, unfortunately, they landed on his jean-covered—and noticeably muscular—ass.
I snatched them away just as fast, but he looked over his shoulder and smirked. “You gotta buy me dinner before I let you get to first base.”
Stupidly, I asked, “Touching your butt is first? What’s a homerun?”
His smirk turned wicked. “You’ll see.” Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “Right after you beg, remember?”
“You wish,” I muttered under my breath, just not quietly enough.
He turned to face me, and though he gave a low chuckle, his eyes were intense and hooded. “Wish and will fuckin’ fantasize about.” His gaze dropped to my scowl, but before I had the chance to tell him where he could shove any fantasy, he grinned. “‘You wish’? We’ll work on the shit-talk and maybe get you up to an ‘I know you are, but what am I?’ before you know it.”
I scowled deeper, even though part of me—the stupid part—wanted to smile.
Unfazed, Psycho moved and pulled out a chair. I didn’t take the hint, so he put his hand on my shoulder and gently urged me to sit. When I did, he gestured to the man across from me—the handsome one from the store—and continued around the table. “This is Jury, Scythe, Lash, Swedish, Glitch, Hollywood, and Haze.”
Overwhelmed, I joked, “Ahh, nice traditional, biblical names. Hebrew?”
Most of the men chuckled or laughed, except the one across from me.
The handsome one—Jury.
His gaze dropped from the man who was still positioned at my back to study me, his lips tipped down.
Psycho’s hand grazed my shoulder as he moved to sit at the head of the table with me to his right and Jury to the left. He didn’t bother to introduce me, which made sense because, going by the curious side eyes and looks of apprehension, the men had already been brought up to speed.
And, based on the matching leather vests they wore, it was unlikely I could count on any of them to rescue me from their president.
It wouldn’t stop me from trying, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
As soon as Psycho picked up the tongs from the platter of fried chicken, everyone dove in.
“Breast or thigh?” he asked. My eyes shot to him and he chuckled, shaking his head. “Got a dirty mind, princess.” He tapped the tongs on the tray. “Which do you want?”
“Not hungry,” I lied.
“We’re all eatin’ it so you know it’s not poisoned. And it’s fuckin’ delicious, better than any wannabe secret herbs or Louisiana spiced.” He dropped a drumstick and thigh on his plate. “But you wanna be a martyr and starve…”
“Fine. Breast.”
“Happy you’re willing to make the sacrifice.”
Food was passed around the table and, other than my chicken preference, Psycho didn’t ask before dumping heaping servings of mashed potatoes, Cajun corn, mac and cheese, braised greens, and cornbread onto my plate. Even with my stomach empty, it was more than I could eat.
Like when he’d tended to my scrapes and cuts, there was something intimately tender about the way he made sure I was fed. In a different life and a much different situation, I may have enjoyed having a badass man take care of me.
But we weren’t a couple on a date.
So, rather than a swooning stomach filled with romantic butterflies, I had a clenching one filled with bile and lead, stealing my appetite.
I forced myself to eat, though. Hunger strikes may work in some cases, but not when I was looking at an escape followed by a fifteen-mile walk—I needed to carb-up.
Everyone talked as they dug in. Not that I was expecting them to start discussing privileged info and future plans, but I still listened as I discreetly checked everyone out, hoping for some sort of clue or tell.
Jury, Swedish, and Haze had been there when Psycho had tossed me in the van, so it was doubtful they’d have a change of heart.
Lash or Scythe—I couldn’t remember which was which—looked pissed and scary, scowling down at his food. He was so thin, he was barely more than olive skin and jutting bones. A jagged scar started at his forehead, going through his left eyebrow, skipping past his eye to continue down his cheek, ending only after it split his top lip.
