Page 48 of Goose

She looked me up and down, and then shook her head in frustration. “I just proved that I trust you. You know who I am.”

I was at the crossroads. I could either trust her, and keep her in my life, or deny that trust and allow her to escape. I wanted to trust her. Obviously, Ghost trusted her. If he ate breakfast with her for two months straight, he had to have trusted her. It was probably why he didn’t hesitate to tell her where I was from.

“I’m single because I’m afraid exposing someone to who I really am won’t go well.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a thief.”

She grinned. “You’re in good company. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. I came about it honestly, though. My father taught me.”

“I’m a real thief.”

“So am I.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Biggest take on a job.”

“I don’t brag about my jobs,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I was told it was bad manners, and bad luck. What about you?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t brag about mine, either. But, let’s just say there’s not a crime I haven’t committed. I’m an outlaw. I carry a gun with me everywhere I go. A silenced Walther .22 caliber, just in case. I’ve been in shootouts with law enforcement and I’ve outrun the cops on more occasions than I can count. I’ve been beat up, tied up, cut up, shaken up, and blown up. Now I’m pretty much fed up.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.” She said, her tone not very convincing. She either lacked interest or wasn’t impressed. She nodded toward my waist. “Were you expecting me to argue those points?”

“I wasn’t. Why?”

“Your hands on your hips tell me otherwise.”

I narrowed my gaze. “What are you, a fucking psychiatrist?”

“I know how to read people. I have to.”

I put my hands in my front pockets.

“Now, you’re disappointed with what you’ve done. Upset that I pegged you for being argumentative.”

She was right. On both accounts. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“I’m good at what I do.”

I was convinced. That she was good at what she did, and that she and I just might get along. “So, you’re not scared about me being an outlaw?”

“Scared? I’m not scared of you, what you do, or how you go about doing it. We’re one in the same. Granted, I haven’t been beat up, tied up, cut up, shaken up, or blown up.” She shrugged dismissively. “Maybe it’s just that I’m better at what I do than you are at what you do.”

I scoffed. “Better? I seriously doubt that.”

She picked up her can of beer. “I suppose time will tell.”

I gave her a look. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She sipped her beer. “I was just being a smart-ass.”

“Well, stop it,” I snapped. “I’m trying to get along, here.”

“We’re both criminals. Outlaws. Or whatever. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“There’s a lot of shit I do that I can’t tell you about,” I admitted, coming clean, so to speak. “I’m kind of bound to secrecy by the club I run with.”

In the midst of taking a drink, she paused. She seemed to digest what I’d said. She lowered the can. “Your gang or clique or whatever?”