Tack was a lucky man, seeing as Cherry was his woman.
High stopped watching her ass and went to his bike, which he rode to Boz’s place so he could switch it out for his truck.
Then he went to the liquor store, got that booze, and drove to the location, stopping behind it at the loading area where Cherry told him to go.
A kid came running out as High angled down from the truck.
“Got a delivery,” he told the kid. “From Tyra Allen. Donation. Champagne.”
“Right.” The kid nodded, not looking into High’s eyes, something High didn’t like all that much because there was no reason why he wouldn’t. Before High could get a lock on that, the kid muttered, “Be right back.”
Then he turned and sprinted into the building.
Fuck.
He hoped this didn’t take forever. He didn’t have anything to do that morning but he had to go view more houses early in the afternoon. Something he wasn’t looking forward to. Something he didn’t like doing and not only because he’d already seen eighteen of the fuckers, none of which was right for him and his girls. But also he’d started that mission not liking moving through other people’s houses trying to visualize their shit gone and new shit in it so he could make it a decent place for him and his babies.
On that thought he caught movement, focused his attention on the door, and felt his body snap tight.
Millie.
Fucking Millie walking out, her hair back from her face in twists and pinned at the base of her neck in a big bun, her body encased in a turtleneck sweater dress the color of toffee, a dress that skimmed every fuckin’ curve—and she had a lot of them—her feet in shiny, fancy, sexy-as-fuck high-heeled boots.
The bitch had worn her hair down to get his dick at Bill’s field.
This time, she was using the dress.
His body tightened further.
He’d been played.
Worse, he’d been played and he didn’t even know what game was being forced on him. He hadn’t seen her in twenty years, now she was everywhere.
Goddamned fucking shit.
Instantly pissed beyond reason, High didn’t catch the look on her face as he took two steps toward her, growling, “You’re shittin’ me.”
Tack had warned him. He’d said that he and Cherry had run into Millie and Cherry was getting a mind to stick her nose into High’s business.
Obviously, she did and Millie went all in.
Goddamned Millie.
Fucking bitch.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, and, no less pissed, High missed the tone of her voice and still didn’t take in the expression on her face.
“Was a long time ago, woman, but lesson you taught me I learned,” he clipped. “Can’t imagine how you’d think you could play me again.”
“How I could... play you?”
Christ, she was good at what she did. If he was a dumb fuck thinking with his dick like he did back in his twenties, he’d actually believe her confusion.
“Donation from Tyra Allen?” he bit back.
He noticed her face pale and didn’t give a fuck.
“Tyra Allen?” she asked.
“Jesus, bitch,” he gritted, taking another step toward her, also noticing she stiffened even as she took a step back. “You and Tack’s old lady maneuvered this bullshit.”
“I... I was told the champagne was here,” she said, her voice shaky, and it would be. She was a player, the female kind, which meant the worst kind, but she wasn’t stupid. She couldn’t miss he was pissed.
“Yeah,” he returned. “The donation from Tyra Allen.”
“A family called Masters donated it,” she told him.
“Right,” he gritted. “And Masters is Tyra’s maiden name.”
Her eyes got big and fuck him, the bitch was forty-one years old and that was still cute.
Cute and false and total bullshit.
He took three more steps toward her, which took him right in her space.
“Told you I did not wanna see you again,” he reminded her tightly.
She stared up at him, unmoving, like she was frozen.
“I meant it,” he kept at her. “You got this one time. You pull this shit again, you will not like the consequences.”
“What shit?” she asked like she wasn’t following. Fuck, like she was so lost, she barely knew English.
“This shit you got goin’ with Tyra,” he bit out. “Not that you’ll give a fuck but you keep this up, you won’t just piss me off, you’ll twist shit with Tyra and Tack. Those two started out with the worst kinda rough patch you can go through. They earned smooth sailin’. Do not be the bitch who makes trouble for them.”
“Tyra,” she whispered like something was dawning on her.
He bent closer to her and smelled her like he had that night at Bill’s.
She smelled different from before, when he thought she was his. Her hair. Her skin. All different.
Probably expensive shampoo and definitely expensive perfume.
He wasn’t into that crap.
But fuck it if he didn’t like it on her.
“Never again, woman,” he stated. “Hear?”
“She... she came to me and—”
Done with her, he lifted a hand to grab her elbow in order to get her attention and say words to make that clear.
He intended to make a point, not hurt her.
And he didn’t hurt her. He barely touched her.
But she pulled away, taking two quick steps back, stumbling on her heels and righting herself, all of this like he’d grabbled hold, twisted, and caused agony.