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“I’m sorry.” Golden eyes says to me, even as he’s staring in awe at the container of beef stew I’ve brought him. Homemade, tender, rich in vitamins. Oh yeah, baby, I can cook.

“You’re in jail because of me, and you’re apologizing?” I furrow my brow. “What the hell for?”

“I don’t like to fight in front of women,” he says simply.

“Are you joking?” I blurt out, more than a little baffled. “I should be the one god damn apologizing.” I motion to the food, and he slowly picks up his spoon and starts to eat. “I instigated the whole thing because I’m an idiot. You risked your gorgeous Les Paul for nothing, really.”

He puts his spoon down and swallows the mouthful, staring at me with a confused expression. “This is really good.”

“Thanks.” I reply, and his eyes harden a little. Back to the conversation at hand, I suppose.

“First of all, I don’t care what you instigated or said to that asshole, he had no right to do whatever it was he was doing to you.” His voice is so passionate. I’m melting a little. “Secondly, that guitar is tough. It didn’t get hurt.” He pauses and takes another spoonful. The blissful expression on his face makes me smile.

“And thirdly?” I prompt him, with a coy flutter of my eyelashes.

“Thirdly, you don’t have to worry about me.” He shakes his head a little.

Oh, I really do, golden eyes.

“Look, I’m getting you out of here,” I tell him, “I got you a lawyer, and they’re working shit out right now. He’s really good, you might not even have to go to court.”

Now it’s his turn to look blank. Weren’t expecting that one, were you, bucko? Ten points for me.

He looks down at the food. “Why are you doing this for me?”

I chew over this for a moment, but I know why. It’s just how to put it without sounding horribly pathetic. Fuck it. Since when do I care what I sound like when I say shit? “Nobody’s ever really given a shit about me before.” I shrug.

He looks like he could choke. The shock on his face is apparent, and I fight the blush creeping up my cheeks.

“I find that difficult to believe,” he retorts, and then continues to eat.

I bite my lip as I watch his mouth pucker around the spoon. Why can’t I come up with anything to shoot back at him? Fuck this guy. I’m starting to get a little riled up. Nobody messes with my natural wit and talent.

“What’s your name, anyway?” I change the subject.

“You didn’t find out from your lady cop friend?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Do you always answer questions with questions?” Finally, I’m back on my game. “I wanted to hear it from you.” He studies me. Don’t even bother, honey, you’ll never figure me out. Just answer the question.

“Dexter,” he says, and it seems like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“That’s pretty nerdy for a rock star.” I give him a half smile, and he shakes his head.

“My parents wanted me to be a rocket scientist,” he says. “Sorry, Mom.” His tone is much the same as when I innately make fun of my own mother, and I can’t help but laugh. I understand Mommy issues more than he could ever know. “And what’s your name, Miss I Know What A Les Paul Is?” The nickname is incredibly lame, but cute. Especially because he seems impressed by my knowledge of his lovely instrument.

Ha. I bet he has a lovely instrument.

“I like that name better,” I say.

“Come on, you obviously feel like you owe me something, coming here and bringing me real food.” He cocks his head slightly with kitten-like curiosity. “The least you can do is tell me your name.”

I grimace. The fucker has preyed on my sense of mercy and justice, both of which I apparently have now.

“Persephone,” I mutter, avoiding his gaze.

To my surprise, he grins. “Well that makes a fuck of a lot of sense.”

“Excuse me?” My eyebrows shoot up through the roof.

“That’s why you keep getting into so much trouble.” He points the spoon at me to accentuate his point. “The devil keeps sending his minions to drag you down to the underworld.”

I bark a laugh. What a cheeky little bastard. “Actually, it’s not the devil, it’s Hades,” I correct him, “and I won’t go that easily.”

“Well eventually HADES,” he emphasizes the correction with a smirk, “might get frustrated and come up here to claim you himself.”

I smirk right back. “If he has the balls to do that, I might go willingly.”

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