Chapter 2
Justice
The second I paid Marcus the last crummy ass dollar I owed him, I anticipated that I’d laugh-cry, jump up and down, shake my ass, and thank Jesus. Hell, I thought it would take a little longer to pay the ludicrous debt.
Ten minutes ago, a man who flirts relentlessly dished out a favor I never expected to receive. A ruggedly attractive man with cut muscles, a ripped torso, and all. The type of handsome where a chick’s standards spiral unless beaten over the head with a stick with standards engraved on them. Then one would have to worry about a concussion too.
Brody MacKenzie is compact yet powerfully built. At least, that’s how he seems. Up close and personal, I realize how tall he is. I was the giant in elementary school and maintained the title in junior high. Although, in junior high, I begged my school-bus-driving father not to give the look when a kid insulted my heavyset frame. Anyway, I stopped growing at a cool five-foot-nine. I wore flats around Lance back in the day. In present company, I could strut in a stiletto, but I don’t have a reason to burden my toes to impress Brody MacKenzie.
Helpless, I visualize his golden skin slithering against all this cocoa. If I peer hard enough, there’s yellow cautionary tape strapped to his taut chest blaring, “Toxic. Danger.” But my eyes drink in his biceps again. Those shoulders boast the ability to lift my size sixteen on repeat.
Minutes ago, Brody was transferring a few things from the trunk of my two-door Honda into the bed of his Silverado. He and Chevelle had stopped to have a conversation with Leith. Without a word said, she climbed into Brody’s ride and sped off.
I’m missing something here—a whole lot of somethings.
While I stare into the tropical typhoon of his gaze, red fury burns beneath Brody’s tan skin. He glowers at his truck, racing past the tumbleweed scattered street.
“Um, Brody, I had my doubts that the two of you were friends,” I remark. “Now, Chevelle’s driving your ride? I misjudged your ability to play nice.” Can you play nice?
Silent, Brody hefts a black bag with impeccable forearms. He’s too damn rugged and manly.
“Hey, conversation is a two-way street.” I zip in front of Brody, ceasing his quest to return the bag to the trunk of my car.
He shoves long, thick fingers through dark blond hair. “She and Leith got issues to deal with.”
“Issues?”
“Yakuza issues,” Brody adds, annoyance laced in his tone.
“Yakuza?” I’ve followed on his heels and have to back pedal as he steps back while closing the trunk. “What about that Roman person you mentioned earlier?”
The beast descends on me, pointing a finger. “All issues yer friend brought to me clan. Apparently, the wee Japanese lad ain’t—”
“Michie?” I lift a brow, popping down his judgmental index finger. The river in my panties, compliments of his Scottish brogue, grows dry as the Sahara when he growls at me. “Are you referring to my boss, Michie?”
“That’s the name of the fecker owns the bar, Michie? Vain bastard named the bar after himself.”
“Yeah,” I nod. Chevelle and I met when she was working at Michie’s. She saved my job. “I’ll admit, Michie’s a stingy—”
“Stingy? Nae! He gave Chevelle a sword to go ape-shite on my bràthair.”
“But Chevelle and Leith are in love,” I think aloud.
Brody peers through me like we’re from differing planets on opposing galaxies.
I fold my arms. “Yes, Michie’s stingy. And if we’re stating facts, he’s a smooth, debonair, older gentleman. Nevertheless, Chevelle loves your brother, Brody. Keep your opinion to yourself.”
“Did I say a word?”
I snort. “Your facial expression says it all.”
“Yers too.” He removes my Honda keys from his pocket.
I reach a hand out. “Whatever.”
The keys soar into the air. Brody catches them before they come down. “I’ve the remedy for that look on yer face, Justice. Right here, baby.”
A rebuttal lodges in my throat. Just don’t address him toying with you, Justice. “Hand over my keys.”