The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

I raise a brow. “Looking for an organ donor, are you?”

“No.” He finally skims his eyes upward to my face, shocking me. “But you might be, if you take another drink of that piss. I got a whiff of that stuff as it was served earlier, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was medicine-grade rubbing alcohol. Bought right from the pharmacy.”

I grin. “Who says it’s not?”

He points behind the bar. “Why not try the DeLéon?”

I follow his gaze. “Too weak.”

“The 1929?”

“Too strong.”

“How about the Savion?”

My eyes widen. “Would you prefer I pour gasoline down my throat?” I glance openly at him. “Because that would be kinder.”

His eyes, slightly slanted but full, are a deep ocean color tinged with hints of silver as they meet mine, at last. Under the dull gold light from behind the bar, they are almost misty, and I realize that tonight might not be the lost cause I thought it was.

I stare into the small tumbler as Danny saunters closer, pouring me another ounce of the tequila I’ve been drinking for the past half an hour. I pick it up, tipping it in Mr. Cloak and Dagger’s direction.

I raise my chin. “Well… I say ‘Cheers.’ And a toast to the man who invented tequila.”

“And an RIP to the brain cells we plan on frying tonight.”

A smile cracks on his full curved lips, and I’ve never felt so understood. He shrugs. “Of course your brain cells will be the ones screaming bloody murder, ‘Goldy-liquor.’” He grins. “If you believe that rubbing alcohol is ‘just right.’”

I inhale, bringing the thick glass to my lips. “The better to cleanse my soul with, my dear.”

His blue eyes spark as I set the glass down once more, a small smirk settling on his rugged face. He blinks. “Well, I’m not the best at knowing American fairytales. Truth is: I’m a Stephen King man myself, but I do believe you just quoted the wrong story there, Goldy.”

But I don’t think I have.

Not when this man—a man who looks like he could be a dirty Disney prince—gazes at me that way, like he’s worthy of being a hero of his own in some X-rated fantasy.

He shrugs. “Guess it doesn’t matter.” His mystic blue eyes go bright. “As long as I can be the Big Bad Wolf, of course.”

His words taper off as I raise my glass to my lips again, peering over its edge. “Then I would like to be ‘Little Bear’ instead.”

“It suits you.”

Several seconds of agave simmering inside my system do nothing but prove that my fourth shot failed at making me forget the danger I’ve put my job in tonight. I turn towards my unexpected audience, quiet desperation drugging my senses.

The tequila might not do the trick. But this man might.

Broad shoulders. A sexy Australian accent. Striking eyes that can see right through my soul.

I saunter over, taking the seat beside him as he flashes me a wolfish grin worthy of his title. He signals for another tequila.

Chapter 4

NOAH

2AM Saturday morning

This is the only night I haven’t fully prepped every detail of in a long ass time.

The only concern I have right now is getting the woman I now know as Little Bear alone. And beyond that?

My plans are as uncertain as the future of my company.

She laughs, full and long, in the backseat of the yellow cab we’ve hopped into at two AM, the dotted lights of the city and holiday themed window displays in our periphery. Manhattan’s streets are completely silent at this late hour, filled with nothing but the remnants of memory of the day, and with more alcohol than blood now in our veins, we scramble atop the leather cushions, a tumble of ruffled clothes and spilling tequila.

The waitress sets the bottle of Mexico’s best beside us.

“Think we’ll get fired?” She asks.

“Well, I don’t work at that bar. But seeing as how you just stole a bottle of their best tequila from the top shelf, then yeah, I’m guessing you might be.”

I gaze at her, handing over a few bills to the driver who turns to us with an accent thicker than oatmeal. “Where to?”

I’d look to her for the answer, but I already know where I want to go. “Her place.”

She places a hand over her heart, giggling, a tiny tattoo on her wrist visible as she leans against the headrest. “My place?” She glances at me, wide-eyed.

I nod, unhooking the top button from my collar. I stare at her face.

“Why not?”

“Well, seeing as how I barely have a place…” She bites her bottom lip, and an ache I didn’t know could exist burns in my chest, making it tighten. “Why not your place?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “Just one question: Are you familiar with Stephen King’s Carrie?”

She peeks up at the ceiling of the cab and then back to me. “Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing. She’s just my new decorator, that’s all. But it should be fine, you know, if you’re into that hurricane-just-hit look.”

A twinkle enters her eye. “Can’t be any worse than my place.”

“You’d be surprised.”

The second the cab stops, we stumble past my stone-faced doorman, into my apartment building’s marble lobby, and up to the penthouse elevator.

Once inside the steel and carpeted cage, Miss Hazel eyes turns to me, that bottle of tequila still dangling from her fingertips.

Her starched, short-sleeved, white collared shirt is now wrinkled, her black skirt askew. Hair messy, red-stained lips slightly smeared, she is still easily one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on.

And I’ve laid my eyes on plenty.

She points an unsteady finger eye at me, her hazel eyes slightly hazy.

“Now you’re not going to kidnap me, are you?”

“What would make you say that?”

“Well, I don’t know you,” she slurs just a little bit, her mouth twisting ever so slightly. “You could be a serial killer.”

“If I was, I would let you know.”

She raises a finger. “Aha! That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”

“Trust me.” I hold a