She’s got a whole little number underneath, too—this black lace ensemble of matching panties and bra, complete with garter-belts. To any moral man, this should be game over. This would be hello sin-town. I should be ripping my boxers off and tripping over myself to get my hands all over her.
…None of that shit happens, because this is not who I want. Not by a country fucking mile.
“Ms. Purcell,” I say quietly. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”
“Uh-uh, Gabriel,” she purrs. “You might say you’re a man of God, but I know a hungry sinner when I see one. Come on, preacher… it’s all for you. Whatever you want, it’s all for the taking—”
“I want you to put your clothes on and go home, Ms. Purcell.”
She stiffens, and finally, that smug, coy smile fades from her lips.
“Excuse me?” she bristles.
“Go home, Lizzie,” I say gently. “I’m flattered, truly, but—”
“Asshole.”
She whirls, grabbing her dress off the ground and furiously yanking it back on. I just roll my eyes at her back as she huffs and splutters.
“You have got some nerve,” she hisses.
“Pardon?”
“Oh, I know your game, sir!” She spits. “Lead the women in town on? Look extra handsome and make them think you’re there for a good time, just so you can lord some morals over them when they finally cave and come to you?”
I wrinkle my brow at the crazy standing in front of me. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m onto your games, sir!” she crows. “And I’m going to tell the whole town about—”
“I’m not sure we want to get into a ‘sharing’ war, Ms. Purcell,” I growl tightly. “Do you?”
She bristles, but her lips purse shut.
“Asshole,” she finally mutters before she whirls on her heel and starts to march across the field.
I just blink and stoop down to grab my mug of watered down, lukewarm whiskey. I knock the rest of it back and shake my head. The town is going to kill me.
I shuffle back to my chair and slump into it. I need to focus. With a frown, I glance around and finally spot my pants on the ground behind me. I snatch them up and dig out my cell phone. I need to call Kane.
My brother answers after the fourth ring.
“Brother Gabriel,” he drawls with amusement in that deep, rasping voice of his. “How are you, my brother in Christ?”
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “What are you, a method actor now? Get out of character and talk fucking normally. I’ve been church-talking all damn day.”
Kane sights. “Alas, brother, I am but a humble servant of the…” he trails off with a snicker. “What’s up, man?” he chuckles in his more normal speech.
I shake my head and take a drink. It’s funny how we both got here—both of us playing the same game in different parts of the country. I was sixteen and Kane was twenty when Jasper found us in downtown Charleston hustling bar patrons. We did it all, man—conning college frat boys at the pool tables, bullshit games of “find the marble” with three cups for the tourists at White Point Garden. Mail fraud, check fraud, hotel scams. You name it, and we were well on our way to being blackbelts at it back then.
But then, we met the grand-fucking-master.
Jasper saw right through our little scams and parlor tricks. But what he saw was raw talent, I guess. Kane and I had been on the streets for about a year by then after our parents took off, and for whoever reason, but probably because of the dollar signs he could see in us, Jasper was like the uncle we never had, and he took us in. Took us in, took us under his wing, and gave us a masterclass in scamming and conning.
I mean, Jasper was the Harvard Law School of conning. We went in with bachelor’s degrees in card tricks and pick-pocketing and came out with doctorate’s in parting fools from their money. Jasper ran a lot of schemes, but his main gig was the traveling preacher routine. And man, the dude pretty much wrote the book on it. For Kane and I, it was like learning to shoot hoops from Michael fucking Jordan.
That was years ago, now. After Kane and I split off to do our own things, Jasper got picked up for mail fraud by the damn FBI. He did a few years in McCreary Federal Correctional Institution up in Kentucky before he ran afoul of the Aryan brotherhood there and got his throat cut in the showers. It’s a damn shame, not to mention a complete waste of brilliance and talent. But it’s also a sobering reminder of what happens if you slip up in this game.
“Not much, man,” I drawl. “How’s the wild west?”