Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Azariah stared down at him. “You seemed like you were in a hurry and Becca is on break.”
It took Connelly too long to breathe. Too long to think of anything other than how soft Azariah’s lips looked. “Oh. Thanks.” He couldn’t help that the words came out gruff.
The man of mystery just nodded once and then he was gone again, secrets oozing from his pores. His every graceful stride, his polite smiles and little nods were all tiny little lies.
Connelly knew that now. And even though he told himself he couldn’t, a part of him desperately wanted to know the truth.
* * *
Z threw open the door, relieved that the sun was shining again. August was supposed to be warm, damn it.
It was clear and bright enough now he could just see the metal arch of Hell Gate Bridge over the treetops that lined 106th Street near the river. Too bad it wasn’t going to last. He could already see dark clouds closing in on the sun again.
As he leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant, he pulled out his last pack of Djarum Black. Sliding one of the clove cigarettes out of the package, he inhaled the spicy scent. Considering how expensive these suckers were, he wouldn’t be indulging again until he found a way to fix his rent issue.
Better enjoy them while he could.
The cigarette crackled when he lit it. He’d been smoking Black since his teens when he’d seen the shiny pack in the window of his local cigar shop. He’d stolen it, of course—it was black and so was his soul. He’d been such a defiant shit back then, always afraid people would see right through him and know he was queer. Everything he’d ever done had either been a form of rebellion or a bid for attention. Or both. After his mom died, his aunt and uncle took him in, but they’d never treated him as family.
It was like they knew.
It didn’t help that his mom had him out of wedlock, or that his father was a musician who’d been on tour, or that the rest of his family were strict Orthodox Jews. He’d been condemned from birth but it got worse as he grew up. The combination of his devastation over losing his mother and the same headstrong personality that had gotten her into trouble were a disaster for his childhood. If he could have just kept his head down and tried to fit in maybe his aunt and uncle would have acknowledged him.
He hadn’t.
And they’d done a remarkable job of ignoring his existence.
The absolute last thing Z needed was to descend into the woe-is-me family drama spiral. Not today.
He’d found his own way, his own place, and he liked it. He especially liked that there was no chance of running into his family. No way in hell would any member of the Hayes clan be caught outside of Boro Park. They were practically fenced in by their own selfish traditions.
His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the bell above the restaurant door. Mr. Hot Fudge pushed through with his soft leather jacket casually draped over his shoulder.
He spotted Z and approached with an awkward lift of his lips.
Good God, even that clumsy smile could kill a saint.
Gorgeous.
* * *
“Hey,” Connelly said. “I wanted to give you this.”
Azariah’s eyes darted from the bills in Connelly’s hand to the badge on his hip and back to the bills.
“A tip,” Connelly explained.
Azariah sucked on a cigarette and let out a puff of smoke before replying, “You should give that to Becca.”
“I did. This is for you.”
One perfect black eyebrow rose. “Five bucks because I brought your dessert?” Once again he eyed the money still waving between them.
“Because you brought it without my asking. Because you remembered my order and knew I was in a hurry. I think good service deserves a good reward.”
With another inhale of the aromatic cigarette, he accepted the cash and tucked it into his pocket. “Thanks.” Then, with a nod to Connelly’s badge, he asked, “So, you’re a cop?”
“Detective.”
Azariah’s luscious mouth fell open slightly. “Shit,” he said with a tone that seemed both impressed and surprised.
Amusement pulled at the corners of Connelly’s lips even as he fought it. He couldn’t let this escalate. It was bad enough he’d gone out of his way to give Azariah the tip in person. Anything more would be way too risky. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from replying, “Don’t worry, I won’t arrest you for assaulting an officer.”
Azariah let out a pfft sound. “You’re the one who ran into me, Hot Fudge.”
Connelly tilted his head at the nickname. “It’s Connelly. Detective Connelly Reid of the 23rd Precinct.” He pulled out his wallet and handed over a business card. For...reasons.
Azariah flipped it around and around in his fingers. “Okay, but I’ll still probably call you Hot Fudge.”