Blood, Ash, and Bone - By Tina Whittle Page 0,2

would have shot you.”

“If I’d been a real bad guy, you wouldn’t have gotten that chance.”

Another valid point. But I wasn’t interested in the finer instruction of hand to hand combat. At least not the combat part.

I leaned over and nuzzled behind his ear. “Come up with me. The place is chaos, but no more pizza on the floor, I promise.”

He raised one dubious eyebrow.

“Come on, I told you I’d replace the shoes.”

“You can’t afford Prada.”

“I was thinking Hushpuppies.”

But he wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were focused instead on the front door of my shop. “Tai? Who is that?”

I squinted through the windshield and saw the figure waiting next to the motorcycle, his features shadowed in the amber haze of the streetlight, blurred by cigarette smoke. My stomach clenched.

“Aw hell, not tonight.”

Trey pulled the Ferrari into the space next to the door, the tires crunching gravel. His shoulders dropped, and his expression went cool and questioning. His ex-cop face.

The man beside the bike was tall and husky, with broad shoulders under a road-fatigued leather jacket, his Levis and black leather boots dusty from the road. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, but the hair was a shoulder-length tangle of curls. He’d been riding without a helmet again, which meant he’d come through some state besides Georgia on his way into town. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew they were blue. Not blue like Trey’s, which were a crystalline sapphire blue. Blue like the edge of a thunderhead, a tumbling gray-blue.

I exhaled sharply. “That would be John, my ex. So you should probably stay in the car—”

Trey got out of the car. “Is he the one who left you for your roommate?”

“Yes, Trey, thank you for that succinct reminder.” I snatched my workout bag from behind the seat. “Which is why I’d like to handle this myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t think—”

“He’s harmless. Gritty on the surface, marshmallow underneath.”

Trey ran his eyes down my face and across my mouth. I didn’t complain; I was used to having my veracity verified on a regular basis. It wasn’t even insulting anymore, just another quirk in a Smithsonian-worthy collection of quirks. But I was telling the truth, so I let Trey see it.

“You’re doing it again,” I said. “That over-protective thing.”

“But—”

“Go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He eyed my visitor, then nodded reluctantly. I kissed him goodbye, with perhaps a little more display than necessary.

Afterward, he put his mouth to my ear. “Tonight. Call me tonight.”

“I will. Now go.”

He climbed back into the Ferrari, eyes still on the guy standing at my door. He revved the engine and pulled a tight arc in the parking lot, kicking up gravel.

I went up to my visitor. I could hear the tick-tick-tick of the Harley engine cooling. So he hadn’t been there long.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “John Wilde.”

“Tai Randolph.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling. “That’s the kind of guy you’re seeing now? Some uptown yuppie?”

I looked over my shoulder to see the taillights rip around the corner, the F430 coupe taking the turn at an almost ninety degree angle.

“Uptown, yes. Yuppie, no. Trust me on that one.”

John laughed. He had a really good laugh, and it came from deep in his chest. His voice was still pure Alabama, slow and rich, like a deep river.

“A Ferrari.” He shook his head. “Your taste in men certainly has changed.”

“Not as much as you might think.” I unlocked the door and bumped it open with my hip. “Come on in. Then you can explain why out of all the gun shops in the greater metro area, you ended up at mine.”

Chapter Two

He plunked his helmet down on my counter. It had been almost two years since I’d seen him, but he’d changed little. A smattering more gray perhaps, and a new tattoo, an intricate piece of Celtic knot work winding around his left wrist. His body was a map of ink, a walking gallery.

He looked around the shop. The display cases were mostly empty—I’d stored the expensive firearms in the gun safe—but the shelves of bullets and shot cartridges made no bones about my profession. Neither did the wool kepis on the hat rack, or the Confederate belt buckles on the counter. There were boxes everywhere—some taped shut, some spilling Civil War collectible manuals, some still empty. In the corner, my failed experiment with rolling my own black powder charges leaked gritty soot all over spread-out newspaper.

“Nice place,” John said. “Kind of a mess, though.”

“I’m