Free Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) by Melissa Brown Page B

“What’s your name, kid?”
    “Kid? I’m forty-two years old, who you calling a kid?”
    “Sorry,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Once you hit fifty, everybody looks like a damn teenager. Forty-two, really?”
    “I eat a lot of fruit,” I said with a laugh.
    “One of them health nuts, huh?”
    “Not really.” I smiled before extending my hand. “The name’s Roger. Roger Thorp.”
    “That’s a professor name.” He chuckled, shaking my hand.
    “I hear that a lot.”
    “Jim.” He smiled. “Let me buy you a beer, professor.”
    “All right. I don’t have to be at work too early tomorrow. Why not?”
    “Sweetheart, two more over here.”
    When Linda Jean didn’t respond, he pounded his fist on the bar. “Eh! You hear me? I said two beers.”
    Linda Jean turned to face us, looking sheepish. I nodded to her and gave her the most comforting smile I could offer.
    “Hey,” I said, waving him down, “it’s all good, man. She’ll get to us.”
    “God, she’s got a delicious ass,” Penowsky said. “I just wanna bite it.”
    “A little young, don’t you think?” I said with a laugh before taking a sip of my beer to wash down the offending peanut.
    Penowsky scoffed. “Not in the slightest. In fact . . .” He narrowed his eyes, then licked his lips. “Ah, never mind.”
    He’s opened the door, Cooke. Walk on through.
    “Hell, what am I talking about? The younger, the better. Anyone who doesn’t remind me of that bitch back home.”
    “Fuck yeah.”
    Linda Jean delivered our glasses of beer. “Here you go, guys. Sorry for the wait, Jim.”
    “Oh, you know I’m just messing with ya, sexy mama.”
    “Appreciate it, L.J.”
    “You know, Jim, you seem like . . . Well, you seem like someone who I can trust to be . . . discreet,” I said.
    He paused mid-sip, placing his glass down. “What does that mean?”
    “I was hoping to, uh . . . well, to get some companionship, if you know what I mean.”
    “Can’t help you with that. Although miss Linda here seems sweet on ya.”
    Strike one. Don’t back down, Cooke. Stare him down, get him to talk.
    I shrugged. “Mmm, she’s not my type. A little too sweet. I like to get in and get out, and she seems like someone who’d get attached.”
    Jim licked his lips and nodded. “True enough.” After letting out a belch, a cell phone rang and Jim stood up, reaching into his front pocket. He held up one finger, excusing himself before stepping a foot away from the bar.
    “What’s up?”
    Slowly I shifted my weight on the stool in an attempt to listen in on his conversation.
    “When?” he asked the caller. “How much? Fuck yeah, I’ll be there. But, shit, maybe a little more notice next time? I’ve had so many beers, my dick’s soft as shit. Yeah, okay. Give me an hour.”
    He returned to the bar, pushing his glass to the edge of the bar and plopping a twenty-dollar bill next to it. “I gotta take off.”
    “You sure you’re okay to drive?” I asked. “I can drive you home if—”
    “Nah, that’s okay . . . my, uh . . . companionship just came up.”
    “Ah,” I said, my stomach churning. I was pretty certain he was headed to the compound, and that thought alone made me want to tackle his sorry ass to the ground, pummeling his face until it was bloody and raw. Obviously I couldn’t act on my primal urge to fuck him up, so disguising my disgust, I laughed heartily. “Some side-piece action? You dog.”
    He chuckled. “Something like that. Get in, get out, right?”
    “You got it,” I said, raising my glass. “I’m jealous. Maybe you’ll hook me up after all.”
    “See you around,” he said, ignoring my blatant hint, before stumbling out of the bar. I knew it was irresponsible of me as an officer of the law not to bust him the second he got behind the wheel of his vehicle, but that would jeopardize everything.
    However, that doesn’t mean someone else can’t do it.
    Walking to the window near the front of the bar, I