Kit had a feeling Bishop wouldn’t be thrilled about him agreeing to lunch with James, and that made it even better. Maybe that was why he agreed. Just to piss off Bishop.
It couldn’t be because Kit was curious what James was up to. It couldn’t be because he remembered the heat in James’s touch.
It couldn’t be because Kit yearned for the kiss of flames against his fingertips.
Kit barely saw Bishop that evening. Which was good. Kit didn’t want to talk to Bishop, and luckily Bishop didn’t seem to want to talk to him either. The next morning, Bishop was once again gone when Kit woke up around eleven.
After showering in Bishop’s guest bathroom, Kit fussed with his hair in the mirror—until he realized what he was doing.
He stared at himself. Pale skin, sharp bones. Green eyes that didn’t always feel like his. He was the same strange, worthless boy he’d always been, and here he was.
Primping for a date with a murderer.
“Forget Bishop.” Kit lifted his hand to cover his reflection’s eyes. The mirror matched his bitter smile. “You’dhate this, wouldn’t you?”
At 12:55 p.m., the doorbell rang.
Kit poured himself a glass of water. Rinsed the taste of coffee from his mouth and spat it in the sink before slowly walking to the front of the house.
A bouquet of white roses greeted him at the door. Each dewy petal glittered with sunlight. At least twenty flowers, nearly as blinding white as James’s smile as he offered the bouquet to Kit.
“Hey, babe. Is Bishop around?”
Kit looked James up and down. Mostly up—James was a foot taller than Kit’s 5’3”. His black hair was casually slicked back, and he wore a simple t-shirt and dark jeans. But Kit had a feeling James’s casual outfit cost quite a bit more than his.
“Are the flowers for Bishop?” Kit asked, cocking his head.
James laughed, revealing his dimples. “They’re for you. Unless you’d be jealous if I said they were for Bishop. Then they’re for him.”
“I don’t want to know about anything you and Bishop do together,” Kit said, even as his imagination took off atlightspeed. He remembered James’s comments at Uncle Ed’s house. Getting hard when killing. Needing to blow off steam.
Did Bishop and James ever fuck after killing people together?
Kit shouldn’t want to know this bad.
“Seriously, is Bishop here?” James asked, stepping past Kit into the house. “I need a vase for the flowers.”
They couldn’t find a vase, so made do with a cooking pot. Afterwards, James led Kit out to the car—
A black limousine, parked on Bishop’s street. A middle-aged woman had paused walking her chihuahuas to gawk from the next corner up. She had her phone out, and Kit wondered whether she was texting her friends or posting on the neighborhood app.
Pretty attention-grabbing ride for a murderer. Kit stared at the limousine. “Where the fuck are we going to lunch?”
“We have a reservation at Fêter,” James said as the driver opened the door. He ushered Kit inside with a presumptive hand on his back. The touch seared through Kit’s thin long-sleeve shirt. “Nice local place, shouldn’t be too crowded. Are you sure you’re not allergic to anything? I can call ahead. Well, Carla will call.”
Kit perched halfway down the cushy bench seat. The leather was soft beneath his palms. The driver—Carla, a stocky brown woman whose silky pink blouse somehow went with her buzzcut and tattoos—closed at the door behind James. The door’s locking clicked inside Kit’s heart.
James sat across from Kit, his stare nothing less than predatory. But his voice was totally normal as he patted the seat next to him. “Come sit by me. Do you want any water? Soda? I’m saving the wine for after lunch.”
Kits mouth went dry. “I don’t need anything.”
James didn’t insist. Just sat with his arm against the back of the seat as the limousine started moving. “So, how has Bishop been treating you?”
He didn’t invade Kit’s space, but his presence was overwhelming. Their knees were just a few inches apart.
Kit shrugged. “Pretty okay, considering the whole hostage thing. Are you the one who looked through my phone?”
“Yep.” James grinned, not even trying to deny it.
