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Murder is messy business.
Would it be inappropriate to propose to a man while he’s in the middle of threatening someone’s life?
It might be an inappropriate first thing to notice about the man whose nose I just broke, but rawrrrr.
I didn’t come this far just to end up with a bullet between the eyes courtesy of this Mafia goon, even if he is a sexy Mafia goon. Dead is dead, no matter how hot your murderer is.
Travis crawls carefully off the pool table, casting nervous glances in my direction like he thinks if he moves slowly enough I won’t be able to see him. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the moron. I’m not a fucking T. rex. I can see just fine,
Leave it to me to notice how hot my potential assassin is.
He leans in, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “If you’re trying to make my dick hard, it’s working.”
The word ‘stalking’ has crossed my mind a time or two, but I prefer to think of it as doing my job.
I fucking hate disposing of bodies. The fluids, the dead weight, it’s the murder equivalent of folding laundry. The job is done, why are there now more chores being added to my list? Except, you can’t just leave dead bodies piled in baskets in your bedroom until you get around to dealing with them. Looking at you, Dahmer.
Another reason to despise body disposal. It’s not wardrobe friendly.
Who are you, Little Sparrow? Will you let me close if I promise to be everything you need?
I’m going to go over to Sparrows and tell him he can’t tug at my seams without putting me back together again when he’s done.
I grin, and one of the waiters walking by stops to gawk for a moment at the rarely seen expression on my face before hurrying off, just in case it’s a precursor to murder.
I unwrap his tie from around my hand. The expensive silk is already wrinkled from the rough handling, just like the man it’s attached to.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? Kidnapping, murder… This is already the best first date I’ve ever been on. If you let me wield the pipe to break the next guy’s kneecaps, it would definitely put this thing over the top.” “We’ll see,” he says, but I can already tell he’s ready to cave on the issue if I decide to push it.
“You’re a sweet little murder marshmallow, aren’t you?” I tease gently, and he lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a choked sob. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
