Not a polite laugh.
Not a nervous laugh.
A real one, sharp and sudden, like it surprises the hell out of her too.
Cornbread beams.
I stare at her.
She looks up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with embarrassment and something wilder. “Panty lady?”
I grimace. “I was trying to keep that quiet.”
“You told the whole club.”
“The club is different than Cornbread announcing it like a horse race.”
Cornbread says, “Could’ve been worse.”
“No,” I say. “It couldn’t.”
Amelia looks at him. “Did they also tell you the panties won the fight?”
The bar erupts.
Cornbread slaps the counter so hard glasses jump. “I like her.”
I lean toward Amelia. “You did not need to encourage him.”
She smiles, and for one reckless second, she doesn’t look like Jeremy’s wife, Mike’s possible daughter, Legend’s sudden problem, or August’s frightened mother.
She looks like trouble.
My kind.
That should scare me more.
It doesn’t scare me enough.
A woman at a high table near the wall whispers, “That’s Mike Welles’s girl.”
Another answers, louder than she means to, “Looks like Derby’s now.”
Amelia hears.
Her smile falters.
My hand stays steady at her back. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Like you’re stealing air from a bank.”
Her mouth twitches again.
Cornbread lifts his chin at us. “What you drinking, Panty Lady?”
I close my eyes. “You are going to die today.”