Take It On The Run

Chapter 8

POV: Deacon

I got the distinct impression that Sloan rarely ever laughed the way she had with us tonight. That was something I planned to remedy, that all of us planned to remedy now that she was in our lives again.

I probably should've let one of the other guys help her gather her belongings, especially since she'd be working with me for the foreseeable future. But I was selfish enough to monopolize her time anyway.

"I don't need help moving," she insisted as I pulled her toward the front doors, the guys struggling not to laugh at her bratty indignation. "I'm literally a pro at this point."

I had no doubt that was true, but I was worried about The Collectors—whoever the fuck they were—intercepting her. I also wanted to get her alone. "We still need to go over your first day."

Once we reached the driveway, her hands landed on the flare of her generous hips, and my gaze lingered there. "I've been a bartender for years, D. How hard can it be?"

I nearly burst into laughter at the question as I opened the car door for her. "This won't be like working at some predictable dive bar with regulars, sweetness. Bourbon Street is the Wild West of New Orleans—sloppy drunk tourists, parades, pickpockets, brawls, shootings, armed robberies, etcetera. Anything can happen at any time, and you need to be prepared for it."

She sighed as she slid into the passenger seat of my silver Range Rover, but I could see that she was fighting a smile. "Fine. Whatever," she conceded.

It took every ounce of self-control not to pull the car over and kiss Sloan within an inch of her life as we drove to her place. Her cheeks pinkened as we pulled up before a shotgun house, as though she were embarrassed by it. It wasn't modern by any means, but that was the inherent charm of the Bywater.

"It's very...pink," I observed unhelpfully, and she giggled.

"Yeah, I should probably thank you for saving me from living inside a bottle of Pepto."

She unlocked the front door, and a massive gray pit bull bounded up to me, nearly bowling me over. I didn't shield my face in time to avoid the dog's sloppy kisses.

"Misha! Down!" Sloan ordered, and the pup abruptly sat on its haunches, panting. It almost looked as though he were smiling, and the sight made me chuckle.

"On second thought, I'm glad you're packing heat. Otherwise, you'd have to wait for him to lick your assailants to death."

"He's an acquired taste," Sloan said, grinning as she knelt down to hug Misha. "Who's a big, scary boy?"

I'd never been jealous of a dog until this very moment, I realized as I watched her lavish him with affection. "If you love him, then so do I—even if he has a face only a mother could love."

"Hey!" She stood and smacked me playfully on the upper arm. "He's adorable, okay."

When her palm didn't immediately leave my bicep, I took the opportunity to pull Sloan against me, relishing the feeling of her soft curves and floral scent. It felt surreal to hold her in my arms again.

The last time I'd seen her, I'd been an unconfident teenager struggling with puberty. Throughout the years, I often wondered what she'd think of me now if she were alive, if she'd find me attractive. Sloan had always been beautiful, even at the age of sixteen. I hadn't stood a chance with her back then. But now? It was impossible to ignore the appreciative glances she threw my way when she thought I wasn't looking—to ignore the way my heart soared at the action.

My lips found hers, and the moment they parted, my tongue swept in, stroking hers possessively. My hands were already on her hips, so it was a Herculean task not to explore the rest of her.