The Trouble with Trying to Date a Murderer (Murder Sprees and Mute Decrees #1)

by Jennifer Cody

Once upon a time, a mute boy fell in love with an unapologetic murderer.

All the man wanted was some breakfast and suddenly all the other customers wanted him dead.

He handed me a hundred-dollar bill and left. Le sigh. My one true love, whatever his name was…

The man spins, immediately spotting and completely disregarding me. I mean, I don’t blame him. I’m not all that memorable, but still. My hopeful, little, romantic heart gives a twinge at being so easily forgotten. Ouch, Future Husband. Ouch.

I trust my gut, and my gut tells me we’re going to have a long and sexy love affair, not that he’s going to kill me for having really bad luck.

“I’m trying to decide why you’ve never been afraid of me and what kind of person pushes a severed head off their lap before demanding money for clothes.”

And, why would I be afraid of you? You’re competent. You’re not going to *accidentally* kill me.

Obviously being married to a murderer comes with some risks; being indestructible makes those risks negligible.

Possessive alpha type? Yes, please. Sign this mute boy up!

In fact, I have a few minutes before I need to walk in, so I wait in the cab, setting a timer so I don’t lose track of time as I pull up my book and start reading again. It’s a pretty good college nerd/jock romance, and I am all in on whether the game of gay chicken the side characters are playing is going to implode or not. Spoiler alert. It will; that’s the next book in the series.

I’m not a trained fighter, but I can scrap with the best of the street kids, and I take out all my frustration on the guy I land on, pulling his head back by his mohawk and punching him in the neck, fully intent on breaking his hyoid.

Me: Where did that cum come from? Future Husband: My dick? Me: YOU DON’T HAVE BALLS!!! Future Husband: I do.

I nod, excited about what kind of gift my man wants to buy me, but secretly I’m hoping he’s got good taste or the wherewithal to know he doesn’t and the wisdom to let me pick my own.

People say it’s the thought that counts, but if you don’t know what your person wants, you should think about letting them pick it themselves. That thought definitely counts.

I open the contact to the name Furion Steelhorse, which tells me nothing about the species or gender of the person.

I can see where Fox gets his lithe form; some might call his father willowy, but I see he’s compact rather than soft, just like his son.

Me: I am getting laid tonight, so if anyone needs to die, they’ll have to wait for Fox until tomorrow or die by someone else’s hand. Depot: What time? Me: Starting at 8 PM. Depot: Until? Me: 8 AM? Depot: Noted. Twelve hour sexcation confirmed.

Groups ranging from two to seven people occupy the lounge areas and the furthest platform, engaging in sex acts that would make me blush if I didn’t have a vivid imagination and a backlist of raunchy books I’ve read and loved.

Isn’t it lovely how I’ve already trained Fox to be more communicative? I’m a goddamn miracle worker, aren’t I? Mute boy trains the silent type to talk in less than a week. Amazing.

“I’m going home,” Bellamy decides, turning toward the front door. I grab him before he gets three steps, smack his butt, and point my finger at him, shaking my head, then point to the floor in front of us. Fox interprets for me. “You live here now, son.” Fox makes it so easy to love him.

“Sassy, beautiful, and smart. I’d marry you even if you didn’t come with a red-headed step-child.”