Only one came out.
“Are you going to kill anyone else?” I asked.
He shoved me away, yanked up his pants, and silence dropped between us. His expression changed. Not dramatically. No flinch, no snarl, no big show of temper. Just… nothing. The warmth in his eyes shut off like a light. All that was left was the flat, cold man I’d seen with blood on his hands. He didn’t answer.
I pushed because apparently, I didn’t value my own life. “At the warehouse. The man in the chair. The one with his throat open. Where is his body? Who was he?”
Doc’s jaw tightened. “You sure you want that answer?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” My voice shook on the last word. I hoped he didn’t hear it.
He studied me for a long moment. Long enough that I became hyper-aware of him staring at me as I gripped his arm.
“Get off me, Detective,” he said finally. The shift back to titles was wrong, and it lodged under my skin more than it should’ve.
I let him go, and he stood in one smooth motion, adjusting his pants, tucking in his shirt, rolling his shoulders as though he was settling armor back into place.
“Fuck—” I started.
“Listen,” he said. Not loud. Final. “He was someone who worked for me. He broke the rules. I didn’t kill him, but I could have. I’ve killed before, so how does that make you feel knowing you fucked a killer?”
How did I feel? Compromised. Confused.
He’d said the dead man had sold Rourke, for parts, I assume. A man who’d still been alive when he’d left Doc, so fuck, no wonder I felt like my brain was splitting in two. I should’ve been laser-focused on labeling Doc a bad guy, on pinning him down as the monster he kept hinting he was, but instead it all niggled at me, twisting things until I couldn’t see straight.
“You can’t handle all of this with me,” he said and stepped closer, and for a second I thought he was going to grab me again, or kiss me, or both. Instead, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb over my lower lip, just once, as though he were erasing the feel of his lips from it.
“Don’t tell me what I can handle,” I snapped.
“You couldn’t even handle not letting me in,” he said softly.
Then he stepped back, turned, and walked to the front door as though he’d lived here his whole life and knew the way out in the dark.
“Are you going to keep coming back?” I asked, hating how raw it sounded.
He didn’t look at me when he answered. “Depends,” he said. Hand on the doorknob. “On whether you keep letting me in.”
The door opened. Closed.
Silence rushed in to fill the space he’d left behind. The room still smelled like him—clean soap and something darker—and it made my skin crawl as I stood there in the middle of my livingroom, heart still racing, mouth swollen, skin buzzing. My pulse didn’t slow, not even when I told myself he was gone.
He was dangerous, and the part of me that didn’t want him to stay away scared me more than that ever could.
TWELVE
Alejandro
I’d been senta shaky ten-second video and a location pin. No explanation. Didn’t need one. I’d already taken twenty grand up front for a situation at a private party that had apparently gotten out of control. By the time I got there a little after one a.m., the guards on the gates to a huge McMansion had them open—both of them in matching black suits, the kind tailored so precisely you could practically see the price tag in the stitching. Valet lanterns lit the driveway like a runway, and the distant thump of bass vibrated through manicured hedges.
A security guard waved me through without meeting my eyes, ushering me across the gravel lot toward what passed for their “bar”—a converted wine-tasting hall with a Baccarat chandelier, an island covered in bottles of liquor, velvet sofas shoved against the walls, and a baying crowd of drunk idiots piled around designer bar stools. The whole place reeked of excess—champagne puddles on marble floors, designer heels abandoned under tables, a chandelier swaying as if someone had used it for leverage. Someone’s discarded sequin jacket glittered from a puddle of spilled drink. This was wealth that considered consequences as optional.
I assessed the situation, already checking for exits, just in case.
“Through there.” Someone pointed, and I headed that way.
A big bastard, the kind of over-muscled trust fund heir who only lifted weights and lawyers, his thousand-pound designer shirt torn open, had a woman pinned by the face to a pool table, his hand spread over her jaw as he shouted at her. She kept trying to twist away, but she was half his size, and he had her locked down, using her like a prop for his temper. The party guests hooted like assholes—diamond watches flashing under the lights, champagne flutes sloshing over their wrists—as they placed casual bets on when she’d bite him again, like it was some perverse after-dinner entertainment.
Again?A bite? Was I here for a bite? Not exactly life-threatening. Jesus.
