“Pass me the onions when you’re done, will you?” He’s stirring the pot, his eyes half-closed. “And grab me the fresh cream from the fridge.”
“Yes, sir.” I stick my tongue out at him and turn to the fridge. Fresh cream. I hope it says so on the pot. Or jar. Or carton?
“Hey, it was you. I knew it.”
“Come again?” I grab what I hope is the thing he’s asking for—Crème Fraiche says the label—and turn.
“You’re the one Pax was asking about. See, told you that you were on her mind.” He has a smug look on his face, and I’m torn between the desire to wipe it off and curiosity.
Curiosity wins out. “Where?”
Besides, Pax will never forgive me if I punch her best friend.
“At the tattoo shop where I went to get my ink.” Corey waves the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir the soup. “Here, give me the cream.”
I give it to him on autopilot. He sets it aside, checks the pot. The smell is damn great. It makes my stomach growl. Come to think of it, can’t remember eating today, either.
“She was asking about me at a tattoo shop. Why?”
“Because of the ink on your back. That skull and the flames and that word. Hellfire.”
She mentioned that, didn’t she? “And what happened?”
He adds a pinch of salt, sniffs at the fragrant steam rising from the pot. “Happened? What do you mean? Ethan told her about the fighting club.”
“Ethan?”
“The tattoo artist. Good friend of mine.”
“Right.”
“Wanna see my new tattoo?” He reaches down, lifts his pant leg, and I catch glimpse of a star and words before he straightens. “He rocks his ink.”
“I don’t care about your tattoo, man. What did Ethan tell her?”
“That you’re probably a fan of the club. Trying to protect her, I guess. He’s a nice guy. Heart of gold.”
“Protect her. From what?”
“The truth.”
I freeze, my hand propped on the counter. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Riot. Don’t be coy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re not a fan of the underground fighting club. You used to fight for them.”
A shiver wracks me. “Bullshit.”
“You should come clean, pretty boy. She really likes you. Wouldn’t want her finding this out from anyone but from yourself.”
Fuck. He’s right, goddammit, so I ignore the pretty boy comment. “How did you know?”
“You mean apart from the badass tat on your back and the flames on your arm?” He turns the heat on low and leans back on the counter. “You don’t look like a rent boy, Riot. I’ve trawled the escort sites, I’ve seen plenty. You don’t look soft. You look like a fighter.”
I shrug, partly pleased to hear it, partly annoyed. “I’ve left all that behind.”