Spicy Little Curses

by J.T. Geissinger

As every good journalist knows, it isn’t the press pass or the notebook filled with illegible scribbles that’s most important to success in the job. It’s a pair of personality traits that are indispensable: skepticism and sarcasm. I had both in massive quantities.

Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for the tall, dark, and devilish type. The more red flags and pitchforks they’re waving, the better.

If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s when someone underestimates my intelligence. Especially when that someone is male and inconveniently hot.

For a second, I thought about giving in completely. About taking her right here, against the wall. Against anything. Letting myself be selfish, just once. But then the ink flared.

I glared at her, infuriated by how adorable her laugh was and how the sweet taste of her lips still lingered on mine. 28 The little psychopath was actually bewitching.

The only thing worse than a smart-ass woman was a smart-ass woman who was right.

I ignored him. Men got so emotional when they couldn’t be in control of everything.

“Look, I’m sure you’re very upset over what happened to your daughter. I mean, it’s totally understandable. I’d be angry too. But I’m not the killing type. Unless you’re talking about the ungodly amount of carnitas platters I’ve murdered in my lifetime, because if we’re counting those, I’m a serial killer.”

Girl, shut the fuck up

“The grave is open. The headstone is already carved. Only one thing remains, Descendant of Ash—sacrifice.”

The book is only 90 pages, do we need to repeat this three times?

“I don’t like you at all,” I lied, grinning. “Not even a little bit. You’re awful. And I don’t know if anyone’s mentioned this before, but you bear a striking resemblance to a toad.”