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“On my ass,” he deadpans.
I narrow my eyes. “Really? You chose to put it there?”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “No, it’s on my side. I was kidding, but yes, I did pick the location.”
I huff, rolling my eyes. “That’s not fair. What was in that drink anyways?”
“Blood of your enemies, and crack, obviously.”
“Shut up.” I choke on my laugh, casting my eyes around the shop to make sure I do not draw any attention to myself. Everyone is either on their laptops, or phones, and some are reading books. No one is paying attention to me, though. Which is perfect. I am in no shape to run. That vow about working out? Yeah, no. That’s never happened. Two push-ups and I crumbled to the ground.
The chat goes quiet, my mind thinking about him. Wondering where he is and what he is doing. If he misses me as much as I miss him.
“Why so sad, Strawberry? Thinking about a moody bastard?”
“Something like that,” I muse.
“Well, I know this doesn’t make any difference, but you have to look at it this way. He was a child too. He also wasn’t given a choice in the life he was given.”
“And the gun to my head?” I know Tucker will never try to upset me, but at the end of the day, I am still an outsider, aren’t I? I did not grow up with all of them. I knew he and Tucker were friends, which probably puts him in a hard position, and… I don’t know.
Tucker shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “We all have a role to play.”
“He fucked my mom, Tuck.”
Tucker cringes, blowing out a breath. “Look, he has issues. Mommy issues. If your mom never cared about you and jumped off a balcony right in front of you, you might have them too.”
“Trust me, I do. But I’m not out here fucking people’s moms.”
He smiles sadly. “Everyone deals differently. You know that better than anyone.”
I groan, running my hands under my glasses to rub my eyes. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“Get used to it.” His grin is cocky and completely Tucker. I can’t help but smile. “Shit,” he looks down at his watch, “I got to go. Have to cash in on a favor I did for someone.” He glares at me.
“Oh, shut up. If anyone did anyone a favor, it was me. He’s hot.” Tucker grunts, ending the call without even a goodbye.
I am envious of Tucker. He gets to have a threesome, and me? I have a date with a fictional character.
* * *
I walk into the library apartment, pulling my hair out of the cap, running my fingers through it. I round the corner, stopping. “What are you doing here?”
Branson turns around, his tall, imposing frame taking up the kitchen. He grins, teeth flashing. “Well, hello to you too, Darling.”
I drop my bag, walking over to the island that separates the kitchen from the living room. Branson stands, black sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a white tank top displaying every delicious curve of his muscled arms.
“I don't remember saying hello, I clearly remember asking what you're doing here.”
“How's your tattoo? No infections, I hope.” Completely ignoring my question, he walks to the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, and butter. “I got an infection with my first one because I didn't take care of it right. I got a staph infection. Hurt like a bitch.”
“Branson,” I warn.
He smirks, pulling stuff from the cabinet. “I’m cooking for you.”
“Can you cook? I mean, didn't you grow up with servants doing all your bidding?”
He leans over the island, face up close and personal with mine. His eyes are hooded as he stares down at me. His breath brushes lovingly against my lips. “I’m better at other things,” he murmurs into my lips. I swallow as he looks between both of my eyes. He moves back abruptly. “But, yes, I can cook,” and then he mumbles, “pancakes.”
