Hands All Over

Ch. 4 Learning More

As they walked into the deli, Angela glanced around at the simple décor. It was a quaint little place with a small mural of the Italian country side and the smell of freshly baked bread hanging in the air. When she'd first moved there, she would've given anything to have a Subway nearby, but as she got used to the quaint little town, she liked the absence of the commercial chains. Plus, she was willing to bet a sandwich from this little deli was going to be a hundred times better than one from Subway.

After ordering, Juice slid into the booth across from her, sitting sideways his back to the wall, feet propped up on the seat in front of him. His long fingers played with the plastic number marker absentmindedly as they waited for their sandwiches. "So...where you from?" he asked, his tone hinting that he knew it was an obnoxious question.

"Really?" she asked, an eyebrow raised. "I'm surprised you haven't done your intelligence officer job and searched my files."

He raised a shoulder indifferently. "Haven't gotten around to it yet."

"Hacker," she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. "Ask me a better question," she demanded, sliding the salt shaker back and forth between her hands.

"This dead people thing...how does a hot girl like you get into it?"

Angela felt her stomach do a little flip. He'd just called her hot. No, it wasn't as nice as him calling her 'beautiful', but she'd take it. "Dead people are easier to deal with than live ones," she answered simply. At his unsatisfied look, she sighed. "I always wanted to be a make-up artist, but it's a hard field to get into. My cousin actually pushed me into the whole undertaking thing. He gave me the pamphlet for this school in Tacoma, told me he thought I'd be good at it. I rolled with it to make him happy, but I never planned on actually going. I applied, got in, but I wasn't going to go. Then the asshole comes in and pretty much forced me to go."

He looked her over, noticing just the slightest hints of make up on her face; a little eyeliner, a spot of lip gloss, nothing too crazy. Not like other make-up artist he'd seen. "But at least you like it."

"Yeah, guess so." She nodded in response. He was right, it could've been worse. She could be doing something she hated. "So how'd you get into this motorcycle club?" she asked, already ready with her own question.

Juice smiled, shrugging a shoulder. "Came over from New York. The Sons needed help with something, I helped them. They liked me, I prospected for a year and then got in," he explained, keeping the details vague on purpose.

"New York, huh?"

"I thought we weren't going into origins," he teased, murmuring a thank you to the waiter as he set their food in front of them. He didn't miss the way the man's eyes had lingered on Angela's chest. A strong protective urge rose up in him, but he beat it back. Angela was not his girl. He had no right to smack the guy for looking.

"We're not, we're not," she said, holding up her hands in defeat. "Gratzie," she told the waiter before he left.

Juice raised an eyebrow. "How many languages do you know?"

"Just two fluently; English and Spanish. I just know that one Italian word," she replied on a smirk, taking a bite of her sandwich. "What about you?"

"Just the one. My Ma never taught me Spanish like all the other PRs in my neighborhood."

"Bet she never called you Juice either."

"Nah, Juan Carlos," he answered, speaking with his mouth full.

"Do I want to know how you got Juice from that?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "No, you really don't."