“Babe.” He sat on the seat beside her, threw his arm over her shoulder, ignoring the cop who was no doubt salivating at the thought of getting his hands on Holt. “Gettin’ damn tired of you running away every time we have an argument.”
She froze for only half a second, and then she pressed her lips together and glared. “Me run? You’re the one who pushed me away.”
“Needed some space, babe. A man needs a little peace and quiet after a day on the road, especially after you crashed the vehicle.”
He hoped she got the message and could let him know what her plan had been if it was something she’d shared with the highly attentive prick seated beside her.
“I wouldn’t have crashed if you’d kept your hands out of my damn pants.”
Holt fought back a smile at her quick thinking. If they weren’t in so much danger, the banter would almost be fun. “You said you had an itch, and I wanted to be there for you.”
Naiya’s nostrils flared, and her face reddened. “You chose a bad time to scratch it.”
“You coulda said no.”
Her face turned three shades of red. “Maybe if I wasn’t so desperate I would have.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at the cop. “Seriously. Look at me. Do I look like the kind of woman who could survive only getting some once a week? That’s what he means when he says he’s there for me. Once a week. And even then it doesn’t always happen because he’s tired after work, or there’s a game on television, or he can’t get it up because of his problem.”
Holt sucked in a breath. Did she think he was going to get away with calling his masculinity into question? Even if it was a damn ruse, a man could only take so much.
“Maybe you should put a bit of effort in, babe. I mean that ratty old sweatshirt and ponytail don’t scream, ‘I want my man to do me bad’. How about you make an effort? Put on some lingerie, do your nails, brush your hair, maybe some makeup, shave your legs, and how about you trim the bush so a man can see where he’s going?”
Naiya spluttered and clutched her glass so hard her knuckles turned white. “I’m supposed to dress up for you when you get home? As if I haven’t put in a long day at work, too? You want your meal all cooked and served to you? A couple of cold ones waiting by your chair? A foot stool all ready so I can massage your feet while I suck you off all dressed up like the fifty dollar hookers you think I don’t know you go see?”
Ouch. Now that hit too close to home. He felt a stab of guilt, although he hadn’t done anything wrong. Holt shared a glance with the now totally engrossed cop and winked. The cop laughed. There were some things that bonded all men, regardless of which side of the law they were on.
“Every man’s dream, babe. And it’s sixty dollars for a blow in Missoula. You charge fifty and you’re underselling yourself. You give decent head. Not sixty dollars worth, but twenty for sure, maybe twenty-five.”
The cop spluttered his water, grabbed a napkin, and dabbed his lips.
“Pig,” she spat out, her tone and face so convincing he almost wondered if she was acting or incensed by what wasn’t really a joke. The image of her dressed in a skin-tight dress, kneeling at his feet with his cock in her mouth while he sipped a cold beer and watched the game held serious appeal.
“I’m going to get on that bus to Idaho Springs and bury my grandmother alone.”
Ah. Now he knew the plan. Damn she was smart. He just hoped he could keep up with her and throw the cop off the scent. If not, someone would wind up dead . . .
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