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He caught my gaze, and I braced for him to snarl at me—or worse.
Instead, his scarred and twisted face softened, and he gave me a small smile that could only be described as sweet.
I tried to return it, especially since I knew he must’ve seen the fear and judgment in my eyes, but he looked away before I could.
Other than Swedish, the only other older man had deep brown skin, and while I’d never guess pastel or white ink tattoos could look anything but pretty, his were badass. Bold.
Next was a man more tattooed than Psycho, his ink extending all the way up to cover part of his shaved bald head.
My gaze moved to the blond man next to him, only to find his was already on me. He gave me a dimpled smirk and winked.
“Hollywood,” Psycho bit out.
The man shrugged and went back to scarfing down his food.
Since my efforts to covertly study the men hadn’t been covert nor useful, I turned my attention to the building.
On the far side of the room, a few remaining pews were arranged strategically. There was a massive TV and an even more massive bar. I couldn’t make out the exact labels of the multitude of bottles that lined the wall behind it, but it was safe to say they had every common liquor and then some.
Through the propped open doorway in the front wall, I could see the entrance, a little of the hallway, and the damn alarm.
The back wall was different than the rest—less aged and not as classically designed. My experiences in a church were limited, but the ones I’d been to usually had a stage or dais of some sort. There was nothing like that—just an entryway that led somewhere I couldn’t see.
My curiosity was piqued.
I need to find a way in there.
Something clinked, and my eyes shot to Psycho.
“Eat.” He tapped his fork on the edge of my plate again. “You’re gonna hurt Swedes’ feelings.”
“I don’t think residents of Sweden care if I eat.”
“Swedish.” He used his multipurpose tool fork to point at the grizzly man from the store. “Swedes for short. He cooked.”
I blamed my ingrained manners and the absolute bizarreness of the situation because, rather than snapping out something rude, I offered him a weak smile and the truth. “It’s really delicious.”
He grinned, his chest puffing out proudly. “It’s my secret recipe, better than that mass-produced shit. Takes three days, but it’s worth it.”
“It’s the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.”
“Then definitely worth it.”
I gave a start when Psycho’s hand landed on my knee under the table. He gave it a squeeze, as if signaling his approval, before returning to his meal.
Damn my manners. I really should’ve been a miserable—and justified—bitch so they’ll demand I leave.
Huh.
That idea has a lot of merit.
“What’re you plotting, princess?” Psycho asked.
I glared at him. “Nothing.”
“Good to know your bad at shit-talk and lying. Makes my job easier.”
My glare intensified, but I didn’t say anything because it’d be a lie.
