Spider Game
Page 10
“What about the bar sitters versus table sitters?” Malichai asked, clearly wanting to distract him.
Wyatt bent over the paper, reading Trap’s equations while Trap continued to stare at the bar. “Bar sitters who stay a short time, 1.5 hours or less, are modeled by the frequency of their peanut eating, while those who stay longer than 1.5 hours are modeled by their peanut-eating capacity.”
Trap forced his gaze away from Cayenne. He looked up at Malichai. “That’s you, a bar sitter, and you machine-gun them. Wyatt’s a table sitter because he likes to have food.”
“Delmar can serve up a damn good burger,” Wyatt defended himself.
“The average length of a short stay for a table sitter, not Wyatt, is about an hour. The bar is open on four weekdays and two weekend days with the average number of people tripling on the weekends. One out of every three people sits at a table whereas two out of every three people sit at the bar,” Trap explained.
“To be closer to the liquor,” Malichai pointed out, nudging his brother.
“There is that,” Wyatt said. “I often am conflicted about where to sit. Mordichai doesn’t sit. He wanders. Did you figure him into your calculations?”
“What’s the ratio of bar sitters to table sitters weekdays to weekends?” Draden asked.
Trap took another deep breath and let it out, clearly trying to get his mind right. He took the notepaper with his calculations written out in his precise, neat hand and began to make seemingly random folds to the sheet of paper right along the various lines of formula.
“It remains the same. On weekends the bar puts out six tables rather than four. By the time I finished it all, I came up with the total number of husks on the floor per week as thirteen thousand, two hundred and ten.” His gaze moved past Wyatt, who had inched his chair around just a little more to try to keep Trap from staring at Cayenne as she leaned against the bar.
Pascal Comeaux swept his hand down her hair, fingers lingering for a moment. Cayenne caught his hand, pulled it from her hair and indicated his wedding ring. Trap clenched his teeth. Around them, the air thickened until it was dense – so dense that a heavy opaque gray slipped around them like a veil. Mordichai coughed. Draden cleared his throat. The air was difficult to breathe into their lungs.
“Trap,” Wyatt cautioned softly. “You’ve got to hold it together. We’re all watchin’ her. Nothin’s goin’ to happen.”
“I was right, damn it,” Trap hissed. “She’s fuckin’ robbin’ them. First she flirts her cute little ass off with them. What the hell? Does she go home with them?” The moment he said it, the walls of the room creaked. Expanded and contracted. Overhead the roof creaked, the sound like tree branches scraping against tin.
“You know she isn’t goin’ home with them, Trap,” Wyatt said. “Don’ be an ass. And don’ take down my favorite waterin’ hole.”
Cayenne’s soft laughter drifted toward them again, and Trap’s head came up, rage churning deep inside, right beneath that thick blue ice. He’d had enough, and this time, he was going to put a stop to her shit.
“Uh-oh,” Wyatt whispered softly under his breath.
Trap’s eyes narrowed. Stop flirting with them before someone gets hurt.
There was silence. Outraged silence. Her breath hissed out between her teeth, but only Trap heard it. She turned her back to the bar, leaning on her elbows, which thrust her breasts out toward him. For one moment her jeweled eyes touched his and then skittered away defiantly.
You don’t own me. You have no right to tell me whether or not I can flirt.
You want to flirt, you can damn well flirt with me. You want to get laid, I’m your man. You’re going to get someone killed.
Her eyes came back to his face. Drifted over the angles and planes. Touched on the shadow on his jaw. Trap, you know what we’re feeling isn’t real.
It’s real enough for me, baby. Those two men are brutes. I’ll take my time with you. I’ll make you feel better than you’ve ever felt in your life. His velvet voice stroked her skin, deliberately fed her need of him.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she abruptly spun around again. Get out of my head. I’ve been a prisoner all my life and no one is going to cage me.
He refused to leave her head now that he was firmly entrenched in it. He stroked her again. Gently. Intimately. When I’m inside you, baby, you’re going to fly. No cage for either of us. Ever. You’re mine, and no matter who comes at you, I’ll fucking kill them before they get to you. That’s a promise. Now get away from those two.
There was a small silence again. Trap made himself breathe. She needed to come to him. If he tried to force her, she’d be in the wind again.
This isn’t what it looks like. Just business.
She was trying to appease him, but that just pissed him way the fuck off. I know what you’re doing. I don’t like it, and you have to stop before someone else figures it out.
You don’t know what I’m doing.
Her voice was always sultry. Sexy. An invitation, but delivered telepathically, mind to mind, so intimate, his body’s response was low and wicked, a hard punch he didn’t expect. It actually took effort to keep his expression the same.
You’re testing them to see if they meet your personal criteria for setting them up to be robbed.
Again there was a small silence. She turned her head to give Pascal another smile. The man reached over and slid his hand down her spine to the curve of her ass. She moved away instantly, saying something low to him. His brother boxed her in, forcing her body back toward Pascal.
Trap stood instantly. The room pulsed with tension. That shimmer moved from their table through the air, thickening more, making it difficult to breathe. Several men coughed. The other GhostWalkers stood as well. Cayenne turned immediately still, sandwiched in between the brothers. She flashed a smile at Trap, ready to defuse the situation. She could see the intent in his eyes, feel the danger pouring from his body. The icy rage pulsed in the air.
She continued to smile at Trap as if they were old friends. “I didn’t see you sitting there in the dark. Want a beer?”
Pascal leaned down and said something in her ear. She shrugged, snagged two bottles of icy beer that Delmar put on the wooden plank in front of her and slipped out from between the Comeaux brothers. Pascal let out a snarling curse and caught her long hair in his hand, jerking her back toward his body.
Wyatt bent over the paper, reading Trap’s equations while Trap continued to stare at the bar. “Bar sitters who stay a short time, 1.5 hours or less, are modeled by the frequency of their peanut eating, while those who stay longer than 1.5 hours are modeled by their peanut-eating capacity.”
Trap forced his gaze away from Cayenne. He looked up at Malichai. “That’s you, a bar sitter, and you machine-gun them. Wyatt’s a table sitter because he likes to have food.”
“Delmar can serve up a damn good burger,” Wyatt defended himself.
“The average length of a short stay for a table sitter, not Wyatt, is about an hour. The bar is open on four weekdays and two weekend days with the average number of people tripling on the weekends. One out of every three people sits at a table whereas two out of every three people sit at the bar,” Trap explained.
“To be closer to the liquor,” Malichai pointed out, nudging his brother.
“There is that,” Wyatt said. “I often am conflicted about where to sit. Mordichai doesn’t sit. He wanders. Did you figure him into your calculations?”
“What’s the ratio of bar sitters to table sitters weekdays to weekends?” Draden asked.
Trap took another deep breath and let it out, clearly trying to get his mind right. He took the notepaper with his calculations written out in his precise, neat hand and began to make seemingly random folds to the sheet of paper right along the various lines of formula.
“It remains the same. On weekends the bar puts out six tables rather than four. By the time I finished it all, I came up with the total number of husks on the floor per week as thirteen thousand, two hundred and ten.” His gaze moved past Wyatt, who had inched his chair around just a little more to try to keep Trap from staring at Cayenne as she leaned against the bar.
Pascal Comeaux swept his hand down her hair, fingers lingering for a moment. Cayenne caught his hand, pulled it from her hair and indicated his wedding ring. Trap clenched his teeth. Around them, the air thickened until it was dense – so dense that a heavy opaque gray slipped around them like a veil. Mordichai coughed. Draden cleared his throat. The air was difficult to breathe into their lungs.
“Trap,” Wyatt cautioned softly. “You’ve got to hold it together. We’re all watchin’ her. Nothin’s goin’ to happen.”
“I was right, damn it,” Trap hissed. “She’s fuckin’ robbin’ them. First she flirts her cute little ass off with them. What the hell? Does she go home with them?” The moment he said it, the walls of the room creaked. Expanded and contracted. Overhead the roof creaked, the sound like tree branches scraping against tin.
“You know she isn’t goin’ home with them, Trap,” Wyatt said. “Don’ be an ass. And don’ take down my favorite waterin’ hole.”
Cayenne’s soft laughter drifted toward them again, and Trap’s head came up, rage churning deep inside, right beneath that thick blue ice. He’d had enough, and this time, he was going to put a stop to her shit.
“Uh-oh,” Wyatt whispered softly under his breath.
Trap’s eyes narrowed. Stop flirting with them before someone gets hurt.
There was silence. Outraged silence. Her breath hissed out between her teeth, but only Trap heard it. She turned her back to the bar, leaning on her elbows, which thrust her breasts out toward him. For one moment her jeweled eyes touched his and then skittered away defiantly.
You don’t own me. You have no right to tell me whether or not I can flirt.
You want to flirt, you can damn well flirt with me. You want to get laid, I’m your man. You’re going to get someone killed.
Her eyes came back to his face. Drifted over the angles and planes. Touched on the shadow on his jaw. Trap, you know what we’re feeling isn’t real.
It’s real enough for me, baby. Those two men are brutes. I’ll take my time with you. I’ll make you feel better than you’ve ever felt in your life. His velvet voice stroked her skin, deliberately fed her need of him.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she abruptly spun around again. Get out of my head. I’ve been a prisoner all my life and no one is going to cage me.
He refused to leave her head now that he was firmly entrenched in it. He stroked her again. Gently. Intimately. When I’m inside you, baby, you’re going to fly. No cage for either of us. Ever. You’re mine, and no matter who comes at you, I’ll fucking kill them before they get to you. That’s a promise. Now get away from those two.
There was a small silence again. Trap made himself breathe. She needed to come to him. If he tried to force her, she’d be in the wind again.
This isn’t what it looks like. Just business.
She was trying to appease him, but that just pissed him way the fuck off. I know what you’re doing. I don’t like it, and you have to stop before someone else figures it out.
You don’t know what I’m doing.
Her voice was always sultry. Sexy. An invitation, but delivered telepathically, mind to mind, so intimate, his body’s response was low and wicked, a hard punch he didn’t expect. It actually took effort to keep his expression the same.
You’re testing them to see if they meet your personal criteria for setting them up to be robbed.
Again there was a small silence. She turned her head to give Pascal another smile. The man reached over and slid his hand down her spine to the curve of her ass. She moved away instantly, saying something low to him. His brother boxed her in, forcing her body back toward Pascal.
Trap stood instantly. The room pulsed with tension. That shimmer moved from their table through the air, thickening more, making it difficult to breathe. Several men coughed. The other GhostWalkers stood as well. Cayenne turned immediately still, sandwiched in between the brothers. She flashed a smile at Trap, ready to defuse the situation. She could see the intent in his eyes, feel the danger pouring from his body. The icy rage pulsed in the air.
She continued to smile at Trap as if they were old friends. “I didn’t see you sitting there in the dark. Want a beer?”
Pascal leaned down and said something in her ear. She shrugged, snagged two bottles of icy beer that Delmar put on the wooden plank in front of her and slipped out from between the Comeaux brothers. Pascal let out a snarling curse and caught her long hair in his hand, jerking her back toward his body.
