Page 23

I laugh again.

Bitter’s gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts.

Heat blooms low in my belly, surprising and unwelcome only because it is so fast.

I don’t know this man. I know what Miss Mercy told me. I know he is an enforcer in a motorcycle club attached to a funeral business where the dead get posed on bikes and coffins are art. I know he looks like the sort of man who could ruin a woman’s life and make her thank him before she came to her senses.

I also know that when he looks at me, I feel seen in a way that ain’t polite.

It is rude, actually.

Very rude.

I like it.

“Come have a drink,” he says.

Miss Mercy makes a sound. “Absolutely not.”

I look at her. “Is there alcohol in the school?”

“This place is attached to a biker funeral home in Tennessee,” she says. “There is alcohol in the walls.”

“It’ll be one drink,” Bitter says. “Public room. Door open. Mercy can stand in the hall with a shotgun if it makes her feel maternal.”

“I don’t feel maternal toward you. I feel litigious.”

He ignores her and looks at me. “Your choice, Sweet.”

I glance at Miss Mercy. She gives me a look that says she will not stop me, but she will absolutely say I told you so over my body if this ends badly.

“I can have one drink,” I say.

Bitter’s smile comes back.

Miss Mercy closes her eyes. “Funeral Jesus, watch over this fool girl.”

“I heard that,” I say.

“I meant you to.”

Bitter pushes off the wall and starts down the hall. I fall into step beside him because I refuse to trail behind a man like I’m being led to slaughter.

He notices.

“You keep up good in those pink shoes,” he says.

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re pink.”

“Comfort comes in many colors.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s sad.”

“Most things are.”