I grunted at the nickname.
2
ZAYN WESTMORELAND
“This is charming.” I had to hustle to keep up with Moosey Bear.
God.
Moose.
What a name.
But he wasn’t a regular guy, either. He was fucking massive with shoulders that were damned near boulders. The way he filled out his T-shirt and jeans made me consider believing in God again because there seriously wasn’t much of an explanation for anything that perfect without divine intervention.
I didn’t really have a traditional type. My type was anyone who would treat me well. But there were better or worse people to be entangled with, and my fingers practically burned to get underneath the cloth hiding him from me. I wanted to ruffle that short dark hair and kiss the button nose that would keep him looking young forever.
If only he weren’t a piece of shit drug dealer.
The reality of the situation cooled some of my lusty thoughts. Moose wasn’t the usual for me, even when I did fuck a guy. I’djust discovered him at one of my favorite bars and realized my “in” with him was pretending to be his boyfriend. I always tried to play a good game, get a drug dealer to tell me about my next victim—one of his buddies—before I killed him and moved on. A guy would tell his lover more than his best friend or trainer or personal chef—all things I had pretended to be in the past to get what I was after.
This new angle was something to get the old blood pumping.
Achallenge.
My game was pretty simple. I’d been playing for about eight years now. There was one rule and one rule only. Once I picked a drug dealer, I had to get him to spill. He could whisper it in my ear, tell me over a deck of cards, or confide his secrets to me in a boardroom.
Then, I got to kill him, dig my hands into his chest and squeeze his heart till it stopped. That was my reward.
There was nothing like ending a life, especially the life of someone who hurt others.
It was satisfying like nothing else I’d ever experienced.
Yes, I was fucked in the head.
Yes, I was aware.
But I had rules to rein myself in. I could only play twice per year, which was a limit I set not only to protect myself but to allow the cops a chance to do their jobs. Two deaths per year were below the statistics of most things that killed people regularly. I was practically a natural phenomenon. Definitely less dangerous than traffic accidents.
The fluorescent lights above us buzzed and flickered, and I was equal parts creeped out and giddy about it. The cracked white tiles on the walls were so grungy I wouldn’t want to run my hands along them. There were smears that I swore might be blood.
“No one has ever brought me to an abandoned mental hospital on a date.” I stepped a bit closer to Moose and heat radiated off him. Fuck, I would love to get under him or on top of him. The long eerie hallway was chilly, and he would warm me up.
“Not a date,” he said gruffly. He glared at me for a second, and I got lost in his brown eyes.
“Whatever this is, then.” I rubbed the back of my neck and pulled my red Zippo out of my pocket, flicking the metal lid back and forth to burn off some energy before shoving it away where it belonged.
There was no time like the present to start the game. Some part of me hadpingedin the bar. There was no going back. This time Moose was the one I played against. No matter how long it took or how difficult this turned out to be, he was my opponent.
And I would win.
I brushed my left hand against his right as we walked, stroking my fingers up to his wrist, and he jerked back a step, giving me a long look out of the corner of his eye.
“What are you doing?” His fingers twitched as if I’d burned him.
“Considering holding your hand.” I shot him a smile.Come on. Take the bait, you scumbag.
Nothing.Not a flicker of interest. No, wait, his nostrils flared. His shoulders hitched. Usually, by this point the men I flirted with were well on their way to swooning. But not him. Interesting. I guess a guy who didn’t have a problem selling drugs to kids would be a hard case to crack.
