At Shooter’s, Dean tried to look around casually, but the boys had eyes on him.
Fuck, they’re like goddamned hawks.
“No sign of her?” Jim asked.
Dean took a deep swig of beer and played dumb. “Who?”
They rolled their eyes. Dean had been referring to Emma all week, off and on, and he had insisted that they come back to Shooter’s that night. They knew what he was up to: he wanted another go with her. She must have been quite something, they figured.
“Who else?” Dallas said. “Your pocket angel.”
“My – what?”
“That’s what my Dad always called women like Emma. Short, curvy little angels that could damn near fit in the back pocket of your jeans.”
“Huh.” Dean thought about that. “I kind of like that.”
“Anyway,” Chris said. “She’s not here?”
“I have no idea.” Dean shrugged. “I’m not loo
