“I don’t look for trouble, kitty cat. I just take her out on a date every so often and show her a good time.”

I snatched the beef jerky from his hand and tossed it out the window. “Chewing on meat in public makes you look boorish.”

“That so? I’m sorry if I can’t be as sophisticated as some of the hoity-toity men you hang out with.”

“And I suppose I can’t be as submissive as some of the bitches you hang out with.”

Wheeler had his right hand on the steering wheel and peered over his shoulder at me. “Touché,” he said in a silken voice.

He turned onto another street, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his tattoos. I was tempted to trace my fingers across the patterns that blended into a uniform piece of art. Why would someone get so many tattoos and seal them with liquid fire? Alphas did it to be recognized, but most avoided the notion of tattoos. It was something humans did to be different, but we already were different.

“You can look at them if you want,” he said.

“Do you have them all over your body?”

I wasn’t a woman who blushed, but I did feel a subtle warmth rising in my cheeks. Could I have been less tactful? I risked a glance and saw he was focused on the road ahead.

“I have a few more,” he replied in words as thick as honey. Wheeler had a low register, but not overly baritone. Just a little smoky and mysterious, and only when he got upset did it sharpen in volume and clarity. There was power behind his words when he wanted there to be.

Why on earth am I sitting here thinking about his voice?

I fumbled with my purse and pulled out a stick of gum. “Would you like a piece?”

He snatched the stick and sniffed out a quiet laugh. “I never turn down a piece.”

“I see I’m rubbing off on you.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something and then snapped it shut.

I chewed on my cinnamon gum and leaned toward the window—the sunshine felt enormously wonderful. Days like this made me regret my panther couldn’t bask in the warmth of a summer’s day. A truck pulled up beside us and the guy did a double take. His friend leaned over and smiled wide. Then the driver shaped his fingers like a V and put them under his mouth, flicking his tongue up and down.

“Working the pole tonight?” he asked.

“Not for you, sugar,” I said. “Why don’t you take that tip money you’ve been saving up and splurge on a bag of potato chips?”

I turned away and noticed Wheeler’s eyes were sharp and fiery as he leaned across the car, checking out who I was talking to.

“They recognize me from work,” I said smoothly. “I get that every so often from the cheap customers who like to make me work extra hard for their dollar.”