Skin Game

CHAPTER 7

Kyra hadn’t spent so much time with one person since before her dad died.

It was disconcerting to ride with Rey all day and then hang with him in the bar at night while he watched her work. It was even weirder to wake up and meet for breakfast somewhere. She had to admit; it was helpful having someone at her back. He’d extricated her from a couple of shaky situations with only a dark look, not a single blow exchanged, and that made for a nice change.

Since they were accomplices, jointly responsible for what went down at the bar, she figured she should be able to rely on him to some degree. He couldn’t turn on her without implicating himself. A down-on-his-luck ex-con like him needed the income she provided, too, if he didn’t want to wind up back in prison or homeless. That was too bad because he might’ve made something of himself on the fighting circuit, based on his other training, but they didn’t take convicted felons, and on the underground fight arenas, he would wind up dead or brain-damaged. Safety wasn’t exactly a concern for the handlers there.

Everything was easier with him around, but she didn’t trust easy, never had. Maybe she’d just traveled with her dad too long; his paranoia had seeped in through her skin, making her unable to trust anyone completely. No matter how providential their partnership seemed, she’d still sleep with one eye open, so to speak.

To his credit, he hadn’t tried to push their relationship. After asking about sex, he made no moves on her, and he seemed genuinely interested in learning the tricks of her trade. That wasn’t so hard to understand. If a body had any brains at all, it was possible to get by doing this instead of real work.

They’d come north through Texas over the course of the week, earning enough money to cover food, gas, and shelter along the way. His cut was slim, but he didn’t complain. Today, if everything went according to plan, they’d be rolling into Pecos in early afternoon.

Kyra yawned, stretched, and hit the shower. The hot water beat down on her skin, waking her up better than coffee. She made it quick, knowing Rey would be waiting downstairs by the car. She’d almost had enough traveling for a while. After Vegas, she’d thought she would want to be on the move constantly—six months was a hell of a long con—but she found she missed waking up in the same place.

Maybe she’d never be ready to go straight, but she wouldn’t mind settling in a big city somewhere that had a lot of ready marks. The danger about small towns was that people tended to remember her, but they also made it easier to find gullible targets. At this point, she had it perfected. Find the local bar, identify the mouthy big shot, and then relieve him of some loot and ego at the same time. It was practically a public service.

Once she got dressed, Kyra did a quick check of the motel room. Nothing left behind. That was good. She could pack in five minutes these days; she’d perfected the art of living out of a backpack. As she left the room, her damp hair clung to her cheek, irritating her. So she tugged it over her shoulders in two messy sections and braided it up. A quick rummage through her pack unearthed two bands, so she was set.

Like most days, she wore her favorite ratty jeans, matching jacket, and a plaid button-up shirt. Kyra knew she didn’t look sophisticated enough to be up to something, particularly with the braids, and that was sort of the point. Rey reinforced that conviction as he slid off the hood of her car. Ordinarily she’d tear him a new one for that liberty, but she was in too good a mood—and too hungry—to waste time snarling this morning.

“You look about fourteen years old,” he said in the gravelly voice that plucked at her nerve endings.

She grinned as she slid in behind the wheel. “Good thing for you I’m not.”

“No joke,” he muttered. “So we’re for Pecos today. What’s the plan there?”

Kyra shrugged. “I won’t know until I take the lay of the land.”

To her surprise, he left it there, turning away from her to stare out the window. Most people would be questioning her, trying to get her to spill her secrets so he could take off on his own sooner. Her new partner didn’t say much, which should have been peaceful. Instead she found herself wondering what lay behind his silences.

She found a diner a few miles down the road, where they stopped for breakfast. Actually it was more of a truck stop, but from the number of semis out front, the food and coffee must be good. Kyra guided the Marquis in between two shiny big rigs and hopped out of the car. After snagging her backpack, she glanced at Rey over the roof of the vehicle.

“Hungry?”

“You have no idea,” he muttered.

Her lips curved in pure feminine appreciation. That was the first indication he’d given of being aware of the smolder ing sexual tension. With every passing day, she wanted him a little more, but she’d meant it when she said he would have to work for an encore. If she broke her rule about entanglements for him, Kyra wanted to be sure he was worth the risk. So far he appeared to think abstinence would do that job for him without any real effort on his part. Well, he obviously didn’t know her very well.

Inside, the restaurant was full of potbellied men in plaid, their jaws bristling with whiskers and their hair covered in baseball caps. The crowd made her anticipate breakfast in a big way. It wasn’t the sort of place where you waited to be seated, so they snagged a booth with rusty tangerine seats and a scarred Formica tabletop.

She plucked a menu from the silver metal stand by the window. Over the years, she’d eaten in countless places like this one, and they all ran together after a while. After a thirty-second perusal, she decided on the Country Scramble: eggs, bacon, and sausage all fried up together and topped with yummy white gravy, biscuits on the side, of course. Her mouth watered just thinking about it.

A perky blond waitress bounced over. “What can I get you folks?”

“Fruit and yogurt,” Rey said. “Topped with granola if you have it. Plain whole wheat toast, no butter.”

Kyra raised a brow. “On a health kick?”

He shrugged. “Just tired of fried eggs, I guess.”

“You’re gonna be sorry when you see my biscuits.”

“I’ve already seen ’em,” he murmured. “But I wouldn’t mind another look.”

Was he flirting with her? Her smile widened. “So tell me a little about yourself. How does a guy get to be your age, totally unencumbered?”

He met her look levelly. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You could, but you didn’t.”

“Fair enough.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks: coffee for her, herbal tea for him. Kyra was starting to notice he avoided caffeine and sugar whenever possible. It was an interesting quirk in someone down on his luck. Generally people without financial recourse would order the cheapest items, not the healthiest. Rey added a squirt of lemon, no sweetener, and took an experimental sip. If Kyra didn’t know better, she’d think he was stalling.

“Well?” she demanded.

“It’s not bad.” The amusement in his dark eyes said he knew she was losing patience, and that he found it entertaining.

“Not the tea. What’s your story?”

“So you want my life story at Stuckey’s? Not very atmospheric.”

“It’s Gayle’s Gas-N-Go, actually,” she corrected. “And if you don’t want to tell me, just say so.”

He thought about that for a moment, long dark fingers tracing a pattern against the scarred tabletop. “Okay,” he said at last.

“So you don’t want to?” Her good mood evaporated.

“Is that so surprising? Would you spill all your secrets to me over pancakes?”

“Probably not,” she admitted.

“Well, there you go. Trust takes time. I won’t be telling you everything until I’m sure you won’t use the information against me.” His mouth curved into an ironic half smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying—familiarity breeds contempt—and all that.”

“I don’t think it would,” she found herself saying. “The more I get to know you, the more I like.”

Something sparked in his eyes. Kyra couldn’t decipher the expression, but for a moment, she thought he might reach across the table for her. She scooted back, knowing that would be disastrous for the day’s take. Rey narrowed his eyes, scowling at the implied insult, but before he could ask, the waitress delivered their food and they ate in silence. She felt sad and sick, but she couldn’t explain why she’d recoiled.

Half an hour later, Kyra took the ramp back to the interstate, a charcoal gray ribbon bounded in white lines that cut through the center of some bad country. This part of Texas sure is ugly. The scrubby land was uniformly dry and brown, broken only by occasional desert flora. As the day wore on, it got hotter, so she rolled down the windows, letting the wind roar through the Marquis like a contained cyclone. She threw back her head and laughed, mashing down on the accelerator.

Live fast, die young. It worked for James Dean.

With her peripheral vision, she caught Rey looking at her with dark and hungry eyes. The strength of her response astonished her. The things he could do to her with just a look should be illegal—and probably were—in the state of Texas. When he realized she knew he was watching her, he turned away. He could have lied back at the diner. He could have made up a background, or a sob story, and she would have never known the difference. Instead, he’d let her know he wasn’t ready to open up. She respected that.

As she pulled off the highway, taking the road that led into Pecos, she smiled. He wasn’t so different from other men; he just restrained himself better. Oddly enough, that reassured her. If he could control his behavior in this area, he’d make a reliable partner. She needed someone she could count on to respond the same way, every time they played the game, no deviations. That was what made a con successful—even the smallest tell could cost them everything.

You’re a crazy woman, looking for an honest liar.

But maybe, just maybe, she’d found him.

This was the fourth town they’d hit, but it was the first time she’d let him in on the game. By prior arrangement, Reyes arrived first at the bar they’d targeted: Lefty’s Tavern. It was a redneck dive, full of wildcatters and refinery workers. He ordered a beer and sat down to wait, as instructed.

Kyra arrived half an hour later, and she drew the eye of every man in the place. He’d never seen those particular jeans on her before, but they were a work of art, strategically ripped down the backs of her thighs, and then laced together with black satin ribbon. The design showed cunning glimpses of skin.

Her movement gave everyone in the room a peek down her black tank top. It would’ve been plain if not for the deep V and the slim line of sequins that drew attention to her cleavage even when she was standing up. When she leaned down to snag the keys that had “slipped” from her fingers, his temperature spiked. Along with ten other guys, Rey saw she was wearing a red scalloped bra with black polka dots and a cute little bow in between her breasts.

The other guys had to be thinking about the matching underwear. Even though he knew it was a calculated display, meant to distract, he could no more prevent himself from picturing her in polka-dotted lingerie than he could stop his heart. And he was no Tibetan monk. Unfortunately, he had actual experience to draw upon, making his imagin ings painfully accurate. He even knew the way she sounded when she came.

Physical satiation should have made it easier to focus. Instead, he could only think about having her again. And again. Reyes knew he was making progress with her by biding his time, increasing her levels of trust. He wanted to believe it was sheer perversity that made him want her so, knowing she was dangerous, the closest thing to a black widow he was ever likely to meet.

He couldn’t wholly credit that, either.

Reyes made sure not to stare too long, no longer than anyone else, before he went back to his beer. Sometimes she went for the Lolita look in braids and plain cotton. Tonight, she was someone else entirely. Since he’d been doing the same thing for more years than he could count, he admired her ability to slip from one skin to another. Like him, Kyra was pure chameleon; she could be whoever you wanted her to be.

Her walk was smoke and honey; she could stop a train with those hips. Predictably one of the local Romeos headed for Kyra before she made it to the bar. He was tall, brown-haired, mostly fit, but Reyes noted he’d gone soft around the middle.

“Buy you a drink?” the guy offered.

Her mouth curved up. Only her eyes gave her away. Despite her smile, she wasn’t sweet; she was a tigress with tawny eyes to match.

“You asking me or telling me?”

“I thought I’d start by asking.” Her would-be one-night stand reached out a hand, like he meant to touch her, but she danced away, firefly light.

Interesting. So it’s not just me. She doesn’t like being touched. Reyes filed that away under potentially useful tid bits about his target.

“That works for me.” She flashed a smile, pure carnal sweetness.

“Cal, get the lady whatever she wants.” The guy tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter. Reyes couldn’t make out the denomination from where he stood.

“Can I get some Anakin?” Kyra asked.

The ’tender frowned. “Like . . . Skywalker? I don’t do fancy mixed drinks.”

She bit her lip, adorably confused. Her body language practically shouted: I’m cute, but not very bright. Take advantage of me. Oh yeah, she was good, all right.

“You mean Heineken?” her “date” offered.

“Yes!” She beamed up at him. “Thank you.”

“I’m Rick. And you are . . .?”

“Sasha,” she told him without a single tell. “I just moved here from Reno.”

While Reyes watched, Kyra sipped her beer and worked her new friend for a good half an hour, milking him for information about the other patrons. She did it without apparent guile or intent, encouraging him to ply his wit. Within an hour, she knew who had money, who wished he had money, and who deserved to lose some.

“I feel like a game of pool,” she said eventually.

That was his cue.

“I’ll play.” Reyes pushed away from the bar, sauntering toward her. “But why not make it interesting? Five bucks says you can’t beat me.”

Rick sized him up and immediately protested. “Leave her alone. She’s with me.”

That set up a slow burn down low in his gut. He had to force himself not to curl his hands into fists. “So you don’t want to play?” he asked Kyra.

She gave a sweet, confused smile. “No, I do. This won’t take long.”

He beat her by a landslide, which was the point. With a tremulous lower lip, Kyra turned over a crinkled five-dollar bill. “I thought I was getting better,” she said with a sad little sigh.

“You’re so pretty, you don’t need to be good at a dumb game like that.” Rick had it bad already.

In response, Kyra let him buy her another beer, adorably despondent. “I wish that was true. Maybe my daddy would have more time for me if I could play the games he likes. I can’t throw a football, either.”

That’s genius, Reyes decided. Now she’d tugged on Rick’s heartstrings. The man would be filling in all kinds of scenarios, wanting to play white knight.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” the guy asked.

She shook her head. “Nope. I’m an only child. I think he’d have been happier if I was a boy.”

“That would’ve been a crying shame, sweetheart.”

Reyes ground his teeth. Something dark and primitive swept over him at hearing this asshole practice his sloppy endearments on her. It was all Reyes could do not to punch the son of a bitch in the face, which told him he had a problem. No wonder she’d played Serrano—and so well. Kyra was a pro, all right, well schooled in manipulating a man’s emotions. And that made him twice the fool—because even knowing what she did, he found himself susceptible.

The con went down as planned. After she’d established herself as cute and harmless by losing a few games of pool, she challenged the champion thug to a game of darts. Reyes watched as she brushed her hands over his forearm, eyes imploring. As predicted, the man couldn’t say no. Rick watched with a half frown, not seeming to understand why the woman he’d wanted was playing with someone else.

“Let’s do a pool,” Reyes suggested, as the two competitors lined up. “I’ll put my money on the lady.”

Kyra flashed him a smile. “That’s so sweet, but I wouldn’t. My daddy says I can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“He’s an asshole,” Rick said, supportive.

A few of the guys took the bet, kicking in money. The rest bet on the local dart champ, who according to Rick, also did some drug running on the side. The pot swelled to five hundred bucks, wagered on a single toss.

Kyra let the champ go first, and he barely hit the board. Everyone booed, and then somebody said, “Maybe he’s too drunk.”

“Shit. I wish I’d known. I’d have bet on her.”

She fretted her lower lip, supposedly sighting and aiming. Then she gave a girlie toss, but the dart soared true, striking the center of the target. Scattered whoops went up, and then Reyes counted out the winnings to the two guys who’d bet on her. Rick was one of them.

He liked this particular con because it spread the money around. This was the first time they’d tried it, but she’d explained the premise in detail. Nobody could cry “hustle” if a few locals made a little cash, too. He pocketed the rest, knowing Kyra had to trust him to turn up at their rendezvous point on his own, carrying her cut. It would be the first time she’d done so.

If only he knew how she’d been so certain she’d win. Instinctively, he knew it had something to do with the way she’d touched the guy. She never did that; she went out of her way to avoid physical contact.

Still brooding over that, Reyes headed out. He knew it would be driving her crazy—the fact that she couldn’t just follow him and make sure he didn’t split with her money. She had to be patient. She had to trust him.

Two hours later, when she came knocking at his door, he smiled.