"Oh, right. I usually watch TV in bed."
"Might be tight with the three of us," McCoy said, eyes bright.
"Oh, right. Yeah. Duh."
"Don't worry," McCoy said, sliding the box against the wall. "We will move all the shit back into the bedroom when you have clients over."
"Sounds like you guys are all getting cozy," Ayanna said, moving over toward the kitchen where I was grabbing her some of the coffee I'd brewed extra strong so it didn't taste watered down with the ice.
"It's a small apartment for three people," I said. "But we will make it work."
"Oh, I bet you will," Ayanna said, eyes doing a lot of talking.
"It's not like that," I insisted, holding up coffee syrup selections for her.
"No? He looks at you like it's like that."
"He hasn't looked at me at all," I told her. And I knew. Because I'd been watching him a hell of a lot more than I should have.
"Then you're not paying attention. Every time your gaze slipped away, his eyes were on you. I've seen that look more than a few times in my life."
"I shot him."
"I know. It's great. Practically the opening to a romance novel, don't you think?" she asked, eyebrows wiggling.
"What are you talking about?" McCoy asked, coming up behind Ayanna.
"Mind your business," Ayanna demanded. "We were just getting to know each other. Right?"
"Right," I agreed.
"You're a shit liar," McCoy declared, shaking his head. "But I know Ayanna too well to think I could get anything out of her. Christ, the times you covered for Gus and her antics over the years."
"Please, if you only knew how many times I got that girl out of her antics before any of you even knew about them. She never did tell you about the time she accidentally joined a gang, did she?" Ayanna asked, and the look on McCoy's face was one that had both Ayanna and I bursting out laughing.
Clearly, at some point, Huck's little sister had been like a sister to him as well. She sounded like a handful.
"That woman is the reason for all of our future gray hairs," McCoy said, sighing.
"Oh, please. By the time you start going gray, you'll have a little girl of your own to stress you out," Ayanna said.
McCoy didn't deny that. And I found myself way too invested in whether or not he wanted children for a man I barely knew, one I was absolutely not going to get involved with.
I mean, sure, the apartment was small, but how hard could it possibly be to avoid being alone with or too close to him?
Chapter Eight
McCoy
"Cat, give it a break," I demanded from my position on the air mattress on the floor.
Shy's cat, Franklyn, was perched on the arm of the couch, screeching at me.
All said and done, he'd been a relatively quiet part of the household. He spent half his day sunning in the front window, and the other half eating or cleaning himself. The only time I'd heard him say a peep was when Shy was opening a can of cat food for him. But even that was just a couple soft meows, almost like he was thanking her.
This, though?
This was practically demonic.
I felt like I owed Remy an apology about his new rescue, Oscar. I was pretty sure I would prefer that hellcat trying to suffocate me in my sleep than screaming at me when I was trying to pass out.
"Your mother and aunt are trying to sleep," I reasoned with him. "Seriously?" I asked when he ramped it up even more. "What's your problem, man?"
"Mouse Baby," Shy's sleepy voice said, making my head whip over to find her padding her way down the hallway in bare feet, pink silk pajama shorts, and a white tee.
It wasn't a sexy outfit.
But, fuck, did it look like it on her.
I'd managed to go all of ten minutes without thinking about her thanks to the damn cat. Now I was pretty sure I was never going to get her out of my head now.
"What, baby?" I asked, hearing a thickness in my voice as she made her way into the living room.
"Mouse. Mouse Baby," she told me.
"Mouse. You got mice?" I asked, body stiffening.
"Oh, my God. The look on your face," Shy said, laughing at me. "The big, bad biker is scared of a tiny little mouse. But no. I mean, yes. But it is a fake mouse. Franklin only screams like this when he can't find it."
"He's got a toy mouse?" I asked. "Isn't he supposed to chase mice, not befriend stuffed ones?"
"He sleeps with him. I actually have like fifty-thousand pictures of him cuddling that stupid mouse on my phone," she told me. "Last Christmas, I put little matching Santa hats on him and the mouse, and used that picture for cards. But he probably got stuck under the couch or something," Shy told me as she moved between the coffee table and the couch, got onto her knees, then leaned forward.