Cash (The Henchmen MC 2)

With that, I was charmed. Putty in his hands charmed and I didn't know a damn thing about him. I felt bad for all of single womankind. They didn't stand a chance.

And not just because he was good looking, but he was. Tall and a lean kind of strong in his black jeans, worn on the tight side, just shy of hipster, a v-neck white tee, a beaten up black leather jacket, and black creepers. Yes... creepers. Though it was cold out and he was mostly covered up, I could see ink on his hands, creeping across his chest, and culminating in an eagle tattoo, wings spread wide, across his throat. His face was on the thinner side, his eyes a sharp, dark green, his hair teetering between blonde and brown, cut close on the sides and slicked back down the center. His ears were gauged. His eyebrow pierced.

Hot.

He was insanely, unfairly hot in his weird modern punk kind of way.

But it wasn't the hotness. It was the way he carried himself- calm, casual, sure of himself without seeming too cocky, and there was a sweetness underneath it all that made you want to let him put an arm around you and whisper sweet, sweet nothings in your ear, fully aware that was all you would ever be to him- a sweet nothing.

“I think maybe Cash is the one getting the short end of the stick in this situation,” I admitted honestly. I was a mess and I came with so much baggage and he was just so... good. So sweet. So giving.

“Barely know you, but I know that ain't the truth,” he said, moving toward me, shocking me when he reached out and grabbed my pinkie with his and pulled me along with it. I looked over at Cash who was wearing a huge, amused grin. Seeing my confusion, he shrugged. It didn't bother him in the least that his friend was sort-of holding hands with me. He wasn't the jealous kind. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Because that meant he trusted me, even with his charming as all hell, attractive as all get-out friend, he trusted me... and there was nothing more important than that. “So I hear you got yourself into some trouble,” he said, flawlessly skirting around mentioning that he could see that I got myself into some trouble, saving my vanity. God, he was smoothe.

“That would be an understatement.”

It didn't escape my notice that he was walking me into my own compound like he owned the place, not me. That was how at-ease he was with himself and his surroundings. He even made walking down one of my many dead-end halls look like he meant to do it, dipping his head down to my ear and pretending to whisper (though he was talking in his normal voice so he was sure Cash could hear), “I see what you did there, walking me down to a private place,” he teased and I found my smile making my bruised cheeks hurt. “But I am a good, Christian boy,” he said, dropping into a Southern accent that sounded natural, surprising me, “I will not be tempted by your wicked womanly wiles.”

I felt my giggle well up, uncontrollable. I looked over to see Cash rolling his eyes, but his lips were twitching. “Alright alright,” he said, finally breaking in for the first time since before his friend showed up. “We get it. You're slick, now get your face away from my woman's neck.”

“Hand to God,” Shooter said, dramatically putting a hand to his heart, “I can't help myself. Look at her.”

“I have. Extensively,” Cash said, his smile in place but there was a bit of steel in his words. I found myself liking that. He trusted me, he'd let me hold hands with his friends. But he also felt possessive and had no problem making that point clear.

“Point taken,” Shooter shrugged, nodding at Cash and winking at me. He dropped my pinkie then, no joke, he booped my nose, like people do to kids, but somehow, it managed to be both sweet and sexy. “Now lay it on me, sweetheart.”

With that, I did, and I didn't wince or shrink away from the truth like I would have done a week before, desperately trying to save face, to not let anyone see my damage. I just... gave it to him like I gave it to Cash over the days spent in my hospital bed.

Done, Shooter hissed out a breath, looking down at his feet for a second so I couldn't see what was going on with his face, what he was thinking or feeling. Then his eyes slid up to mine again and I saw a sort of fierce determination there. “Nothing fucking worse than a man who raises his hand against a woman. Even worse when the bastard gets away with it. So you give me a name and a picture,” he said to me, then turned to Cash, “and you get me the kind of gun I can work with.” Cash nodded and Shooter pinned me again with his intense gaze, “And in twenty-four fucking hours, he won't be breathing easy anymore. Mainly because the fuck won't be breathing at all.”

It was then that I saw the professional underneath the real man. I saw him for what he was. I saw how he earned his name. Shooter. That was what he was. That was what he did. It was easy to forget that when he was smiling and touching you and being sweet-sexy enough to make a nun blush. It was easy to forget what he was: a killer. A very good, very experienced killer.

It wasn't the skin he lived in. It wasn't something he wore on his sleeve, but it was a part of him.

“Unless you want him plugged but breathing. I can make that happen too. I don't like to do that, but in this case... I can make an exception.”

“I want this over,” I said with a simple shrug. I was over it. I wanted the loose ends tied off so I could finally move on.