2. Khadri “Moros” Weston

2

KHADRI "MOROS" WESTON

"So, she's looking for you." Boswell "Boss" Teller puffed on his cigar before letting his head fall back to blow the smoke in perfectly rounded circles in the air. "She probably just wants to say thanks."

"This is the kind of shit that makes me not want to get involved." I muttered. "The only thing that matters is that she's safe. I don't need anyone's gratitude."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be a good human." Boss leaned forward to pick up his beer. "Maybe meet with her, let her buy you lunch or something—that should give her closure."

"I fucking hate that word."

"Yeah, maybe it hates you too." Boss smirked.

"Damn it, Boss."

"I know. I get it. But if she's like most women, she won't just go away. She feels like she owes you something now." Boss scratched the back of his neck. "When you save someone's life, there's a tether there."

Sighing, I took a long swallow from my beer and leaned back in the lawn chair, stretching my legs out in front of me.

Growing up, I was surrounded by people.

People I thought loved me, cared for me.

My parents dying in a freak accident cured me of that thought and thrust me into the reality they were only there for what my parents could do for them.

I didn't trust anyone's good intentions—tether or not.

They were there for the money—and once they found out my parents left it all to me, they began floating around.

A few of them even went to court trying to get guardianship of me. They knew if they controlled me, they controlled the money.

I wasn't an idiot.

By the time the case was over, I was eighteen, legally an adult and they were shit out of luck.

There were very few people I trusted—Boswell was one, Wolf, Dude and Tex were the others.

And while Wolf's' team seemed like good people, I was still wary of a few of them.

The trust I had for these men were born through blood.

Finishing my beer, I picked up one of the chicken wings and popped a half of it into my mouth. I ate silently, thinking about Boss' suggestion.

"Don't over-think it." Boss tapped my knee affectionately. "There are worse things in the world than having lunch with a pretty woman."

"I didn't say she was pretty."

Boss arched a brow while shrugging then standing with a groan. He did what he always did after he'd been sitting for too long—arched his body backward, before lacing his fingers high above his head to stretch his spine.

Physically, we didn't leave our deployments the same. We were older and while I chose to use my degree to start working on motorcycles for a living, Boss stayed in the action—became a cop.

"I should go." Boss told me while putting out his cigar. "Thanks for the beers and the company, but my Uber is almost here. Maybe get some rest and think about it."

I would offer to give him a ride, but we'd been drinking.

After a hug, I walked him inside to gather his things.

His ride arrived and I escorted him to it. We bumped fists and I stood back to watch as he climbed into the vehicle. Before it disappeared down the street and away from the cul-de-sac, I had the license plate memorized even though Boss had set his account to notify me each time he got into an Uber.

Old habit, I supposed.

Once he was gone, I checked the time. It was just after ten at night—Dude should still be awake, so I called.

"You're a hard man to get a hold of." Dude spoke into the receiver.

I guess he figured who was calling based on the fact my number showed up as unknown on his phone.

Another little habit from a lifetime ago.

"What did you tell her about me?" I asked.

"That we were still looking." Dude replied. "That you were technically a ghost. I don't know why you're hiding—she just wants to see the face of the man who saved her."

"This face?"

Dude sighed.

"Moros, you can't hide from the opposite sex forever."

"I'm sure going to give it a try." I frowned. "And I'm not hiding. I just—I know my limits. Just tell her she doesn't need to thank me—that I did what anyone else would have done."

"Bullshit."

I rubbed a hand over my face.

"At least think about it, okay?" Dude pushed. "I'm going to send you some info on her. And before you make a decision, know she's stubborn."

"Just fucking great."

I hung up and within a few minutes, the information Dude promised was sent. I went inside and sat in the living room skimming through it. By the time I was finished, I dressed in all black, grabbed my helmet and a few other things and climbed onto my Harley.

The diner was falling apart.

Someone exited and slammed the door a little too hard and it fell off the top hinges.

And overweight man who looked like he should have a cigarette hanging out a corner of his mouth to go with his grease covered apron, a t-shirt and tattered khakis came out to fix it then disappeared back into the semi-busy establishment.

In one of the front windows, a red neon signed tried to burn it into my cornea that they sold the b st c eesebur ers around.

I wasn't sure why they didn't just change the bulbs in the sign?—

It was making me feel as if I was suffering from OCD and that my brain was glitching trying to read the damn thing.

I watched the establishment for a while, people coming and going, mostly young couples. They were wrapped into each others' arms, obviously still in their honeymoon phase.

I scoffed.

The fact love wasn't real hadn't kicked them in the dick yet.

Give it time.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting there on my cycle before I set my helmet on the belly and climbed off. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I wandered across the lot and stepped through the door, half expecting a loud clang as the door fell off its hinges again.

It didn't and I exhaled and faced forward while removing my hoodie.

No one greeted me—I stopped a passing waitress.

"I'm looking for Miss Ryanne." I told her.

"Miss?" She chuckled, allowing her eyes to roam me up and down.

I hated it when women did that to me.

"So proper, Sugar." She muttered. "If you're looking for a Miss, this ain't the joint."

"Is she here or not?"

I never had the patience for this kind of woman.

"Wait here." She snapped and stormed off.

Dragging my palms along my thighs I took a seat in a corner booth and waited.

For the length of time I sat there, I couldn't ever remember being so unsure about anything in my life. It didn't make sense I came here to give her closure or whatever the fuck this was.

It wasn't something for me—I couldn't care less if she was settled with our encounter or not.

"What's the difference between hungry and horny?" The man in the booth next to me asked.

The woman sitting across from him didn't look impressed with the question.

By the way she was pushing her food around on her plate and refused to touch her drink, I would say it was a first date—and it wasn't going so well.

"I don't know." She sighed, placing her fork on her plate.

"Where you put the cucumber." The man chortled.

The woman picked up her drink, grabbed her purse and stood. She chucked the contents from her frosted glass into his face and slipped out from behind the booth.

"Pig." She snapped. "You've been an absolute asshole this entire date. Don't ever call me again."

As she tried leaving, he grabbed her arm, and my back went up.

But I didn't have to worry.

The waitress from earlier was passing with a pot of steaming coffee. The pissed off woman yanked the pot from the passing tray and dumped the boiling contents into the man's lap.

"The next time you think of putting your hands on a woman." She barked, dropping the pot into his lap as well. "Think twice."

She then dropped money on the tray to pay for the coffee and I was assuming the coffeepot then stormed out.

I couldn't help smiling.

"You wanted to see me?"

I hadn't heard her walk up.

Self-consciously, I turned my head with practiced ease to hide the scar on my face.

"You were the one looking for me." I told her.

"Look," she said, cocking a rounded hip and dropping a hand on it. "It's been a long shift, and I'm in a shit mood. So, if this is your attempt at hitting on me, find another girl, okay. I'm working."

"My name is Khadri Weston."

"So, what, I don't—" She gasped and slipped into the seat across from me. "It's you."

I tilted my head to the side as she smoothed her hand over her head, removing the hair net, then tapping her cheeks as if trying to get some kind of colour or feeling back into them.

"Can I buy some coffee?—"

"I shouldn't drink caffeine so late." I responded. "I already don't sleep well as is."

"Um—"

"Miss Larwick, you don't?—"

"Ryanne." She interrupted. "O—or Anne."

"Ryanne, you really don't have to do any of this. I helped you because you were in trouble. It was a kneejerk reaction. I don't need you to hold any guilt about it."

"I can't help it." She leaned closer.

She smelled like French-fries and cheap perfume.

It saddened me.

A woman like this deserves to bathe in the most luxurious scents.

I cleared my throat.

"And I wanted to ask you something," Ryanne said.

"Ask me something?"

She nodded.

"Um—okay." I exhaled. "How about something cold instead of the coffee?"

"I have the perfect thing!" She brightened and tried scrambling from the booth.

Ryanne succeeded in getting tangled into herself and tumbled over. Instinctively, I reached for her and to stop her momentum from pulling me off balance, I brought her weight into myself and fell back to my ass on the seat.

She gasped, stared up into my face the pushed away from me.

I smiled but said nothing.

"Sorry." She adjusted her clothes and scurried off.

She isn't different.

The scar?—

Resisting the urge to pull my hood over my head, I turned my head out the window to stare at my cycle. The parking spots on either side of it was clear.

I didn't mind.

"Here you go."

I looked up to see her setting a kind of slush drink in front of me and one on the other side of the table. When she was settled again, her shoulders rose almost to her ears then fell.

"Could—I wanted to find out why those men were after me." Ryanne cleared her throat. "I would ask Dude, but—well—different countries. Could you help me?"

"Help you—with what, exactly?"

"Make sure I don't get myself killed while I do a little bit of digging." Was her reply.

"You don't think they were after your wallet?"

Ryanne tilted her head.

"I don't think so. It wouldn't have taken three of them to take my purse or my wallet. There's a bad feeling in my stomach every time I think about it. And until I find something out, I keep looking over my shoulder—I now own mace!"

I sighed.

"I'd pay you."

I chuckled. "No offense, Miss—Ryanne. You couldn't afford me."

"Why? Because I work here?"

After a sip of my drink—fruity, blueberry—I set the tall glass back on the table and lounged back in my seat.

"Okay, can you afford me?"

"How much do you charge for bodyguarding?"

I quirked a brow.

"You want me to guard your body?"

She shook her head. "This was a mistake."

I stopped her as she tried to leave, and she stared into my eyes for a while. This was the longest any woman had stared into my face since I'd been hurt.

What is it about this woman?

"Sit," I said. "Please."

Ryanne relented and sat. I drank more from my drink, the taste of it growing on me.

"Seriously, do you think you're in danger?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," Ryanne said. "God, I hope not. I hope this is a wild goose chase and it amounts to nothing."

Nodding, I completely understood that feeling.

"I tell you what." I finished the drink. "How about you get me another one of these drinks—what other flavours do they have?"

"This is passionfruit."

"Okay, you get me one of the passionfruit ones and I'll look into a few things." I told her. "Once we have more information, we can better make decisions."

"And your payment?"

"We can broach this topic again if there's something I need to protect your body from."

Ryanne pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Deal?" I asked.

She seemed thoughtful for a while before nodding.

As she walked away, I stared after her, wondering how she wound up in a place like this.

She walked by the man who'd fixed the door, and he smacked her ass.

She turned and slapped him hard across the face but the man only laughed and headed in my direction to get to the door that had fallen off the hinge again.

As he passed me, I surged to my feet, grabbed him by the back of the neck and brought his face down into the table—hard.

"Look at me." I demanded, twisting my wrist so he lifted his bloody face. "Look at me."

When he opened his eyes, I leaned in close.

"Are you hearing me?" I asked, softly.

The man nodded.

"You don't know who I am—but I don't talk just to hear myself."

Again, he nodded. "Ye—yes."

"If you touch her or any other of these women again without their permission," I said. "I will come back and cut off every—single—one of your fingers. While you're still alive. Are we clear?"

When he made no move to respond, I brought his head away from the table and slammed it down again.

"Are we clear?" I asked.

"Clear." He sputtered. "I understand."

Pulling him back, I dropped him on the ground and sat in the booth again. The man scooped himself off the ground, covered his nose with one hand and ran off. I plucked out a bunch of napkins, cleaned off the table then wandered in the bathroom to wash my hands.

Ryanne was seated in her spot again, sipping from her drink while mine sat waiting.

"You didn't have to do that." She told me, her voice soft. "Now he's just going to make my life hell."

"Then, I'll come back." I told her, using my straw to stir my drink. "Pay him another visit."

Ryanne said nothing.

Her silence forced me to look up into her eyes.

A million questions floated through her deep, brown gaze, and I was very sure they were questions I didn't have the answers to.

"I guess we have a deal, Mr. Weston."

I scoffed—a sound that sounded softer than I thought I was capable of.

"They call me Moros." I explained.

She was already scared of me.

Telling her they gave me a call sign of the God of impending doom shouldn't make it worse.