Captive Ride(3)

"And what the hell is that?"

She opens her mouth to explain but Lemonhead leans forward. "It's steak and fries. Pedestrian food, really."

"So food for people who walk? Fits me."

Lemonhead snorts. "Pedestrian. It means simple not food that walks."

"Should've used simple then." I reach for Amy's water and drain it. She's too serious to have alcohol at lunch but if this the kind of conversation she has to suffer through with the blowhard, then she should start ordering it by the fistfuls.

Lemonhead sputters. "It's a perfectly acceptable word. I'll have you know—"

Amy cuts him off. "Flint knows what pedestrian means. I've worked with him before and he's not dumb." Amy casts me a scolding look. Stop playing with this guy, she says silently.

I raise an eyebrow. Tell him to get lost before I do.

Amy turns to Lemonhead. "Thanks for meeting me for lunch Ron. It was good, as always."

Good? If he has any pride, his dick is shriveling up into his body about now. A meal with a hot babe like Amy shouldn't result in her telling you it was good.

He slides out of the booth as if good is just fine with him. "Amelia, can I please talk to you for a moment?"

She nods. "Of course."

He jerks his chin toward the doorway. "Maybe you can walk me out?"

"What are you five?" I've had enough. The man walks the woman out. Not the other way around.

"I need a moment of privacy. Do you mind?" Lemonhead straightens his tie and I think it might be cutting off the airway into his brain because any one with a half a clue could tell that yes, I do mind. A hell of a lot.

"Up to Amy here." I stretch my arm along the back of the booth, my ringed fingers hanging only inches from her shoulder. This action gets me another curious look before she scoots out of the booth. Her hand goes to her ass as she straightens her tight skirt.

I can't help a growl that rumbles out of my throat as every male head in the restaurant turns toward her.

"Did he just growl at you?" I hear Lemonhead gasp.

"No. Of course not," Amy replies. Behind her back where Lemonhead can't see Amy flips me off.

God, she really does it for me.

The waitress pops over. "Is the party leaving?" She looks confused.

"No, just give me a minute. I think my friend is ready to order," Amy instructs.

"I'd like the steak and fries."

She takes the menus. "Anything to drink?"

I peer around her at the bar that runs nearly the length of the restaurant. "Whatever you got on tap that isn't light is good for me."

"Tap It IPA sound good?"

While I did know what pedestrian meant, IPA doesn't ring a bell so I just nod. One beer is as good as the next so long as it isn't the watered down shit.

"No. Get hime a Stone IPA." Amy grabs the waitress as she's about to leave. Amy turns to me. "The other is too flowery for you. Stone is piney and dry."

"I'm drinking a forest?"

"Right before the fire starts," she replies saucily.

Lemonhead doesn't like this exchange. He clears his throat and Amy allows herself to be drawn a little further away.

"I know you said you did defense work, but this surprises me, Amelia." If Lemonhead is trying to keep it down, he's failing.

"It shouldn't." The tone of her voice is abrupt but Lemonhead doesn’t take the hint.

"Can he even afford to eat here?"

Amy laughs. "If he can't then I guess I'm paying. Ron, it was nice to have lunch with you but I have a potential client waiting. Do you mind if I call you later?"

Lemonhead looks at his watch. "I'll be available after six. I have a late meeting myself."

"Sounds good." Amy pats him on the shoulder like he's a nice dog. Lemonhead nods his head and then looks at her ass longingly as she turns back to the table. I growl again and he raises his eyes to mine.

Don't look at her, I tell him clearly and whether it's my stone face, my leathers, or the fact I would jump out of the booth in a heartbeat if he doesn't get gone, Lemonhead spins on his heel and disappears.





Chapter Two





Flint


"Nice place. Why are the plates so small?” I ask her when she slides into the booth once again. The booth nearest to us has about five tiny white plates tossed around the table. The four ladies sharing lunch are staring at me. I give them a wave and the four commence giggling. They have to be sixty if they are a day.

“It’s a tapas restaurant. They serve small portions designed to share. And stop flirting with the ladies next to us."

"Are you jealous?" I ask, plucking a piece of bread from her plate and shoving it in my mouth. Her salad is gone and I wonder if she's still hungry, particularly if the plate was this small.