Rex Read Online Free PDF Page A

and I’m near enough that I can feel her breath blowing on my lips, so close I could probably kiss her. Not a good idea though since she might sprout claws any minute.
    “It’s not who you are, it’s a mask you hide behind, to hide whatever’s cut you so deep. How do I know that? Because I do the same God damn thing.”
    And then I take a step back.
    What the hell is wrong with me? I slipped. I’m not that guy—the cuddly, sharing type. But I see myself when I look at her, and for some reason, I want her to know that I understand.
    There’s a flicker in her eyes, maybe surprise that I can read her so well. A small smile tugs at her lips as she glances downward and something inside me feels victorious, as if I’ve chipped away at a tiny piece of her armor.
    “Okay,” she submits, finally. “I’ll have a rum and coke.”
    I nod, and sandwich my way between two customers at the bar, ordering her drink and a beer for myself. I’ve never been a heavy drinker and I don’t do hard liquor. Probably because I saw the damage it did to my mother, and I don’t want to end up like her.
    Turning around, I grab our drinks and gesture toward a table in the corner. I let Blondie go ahead of me, taking in the slope of her back in that low-cut dress that fits like it was made for her.
    “I can feel you staring at me.”
    There’s not a hint of defensiveness in her response. In fact, I think it’s quite the opposite. She takes a seat, a subtle smile playing on her lips as I place our drinks on the table.
    “Well,” I reply, “you’re a stunner. There’s a lot to stare at.” Her cheeks flush pink in response and she quickly lifts her drink to her mouth. “So… you left Ryder’s bar last night pretty abruptly.”
    She shrugs, setting her drink down and swirling the ice around with her finger. “There wasn’t anything else to say.”
    “Oh, I don’t know about that.” I take a long pull of my beer. “There’s always more to say. What’s your story?”
    She raises her eyes to mine in question. “My story?”
    “Yeah, your story. Everyone’s got one. As a tattoo artist, I hear people’s stories every day. So, what’s yours?” I lean back in the chair, arms folded across my chest.
    “I don’t have a story.” She casts her gaze to a group of people at a nearby table.
    “Bullshit.” I scrutinize her as if she’s a specimen I’m trying to dissect. “Your eyes say something completely different.”
    She’s quiet for a few minutes before her gaze settles on me again and she heaves out a hard sigh. “The bitch thing is hereditary.”
    “Ah, from your dad,” I tease, and she actually laughs. It’s light and airy, carefree, the total opposite of how she presents herself.
    “Yeah, when he wore dresses it came out the most.” She smiles, and that’s when I notice the way one side of her mouth lifts a tiny bit higher than the other as she does.
    Her gleam fades and she pauses, staring into her glass before continuing. “My mom is a first-class bitch. So let’s just say I learned from the best. She’s one of the hardest women I’ve ever met: cold, condescending, judgmental.”
    “I’ve got one of those, too. And you want to know the irony?” I shake my head on a laugh. “She writes bestselling romance novels, sappy, happy ending shit. Yet she’s as cold as ice.”
    Raising the drink to her lips, she swallows it down hard. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “Likewise.” I clink my bottle against her glass just before she polishes it off, slamming it on the table. “To shitty mothers,” I salute, picking her glass back up, the ice clinking around at the bottom. “You want another?”
    “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asks, but she’s smiling when she says it.
    “Oh, believe me, I want you sober.” My gaze sails down to her tits, then lower, to discover her thighs shifting on the chair. She’s affected by me.
    Good to know.
    I move my chair closer, our arms nearly touching. “So, how