The bodies bleeding out on the kitchen floor were brutes. But Kit at least knew how to handle them. He had no idea how to handle these two killers.
Once again, Kit wasn’t sure whether the twisting in his stomach was fear or excitement. A rush he hadn’t felt from any drug over the past few months.
He swallowed, his throat dry. “Are we just going to stand here?”
“Smart boy. We probably shouldn’t.” James traced his jaw again. Bare fingers dipped down to stroke the rapid thrum of Kit’s pulse. He leaned closer, the heat of him suffusing Kit’s body. “Do we kill him, Bishop?”
Blue Eyes—Bishop, apparently—lowered his gun. “What do you think?”
“Really?” James sounded delighted. “You never care what I think.”
With the gun lowered, James’s hand tightened around Kit’s neck. Not choking. Just enough pressure to push Kit backward, pinning him beside the kitchen door frame. Pressed against the wall, his messenger bag twisted awkwardly between them, Kit looked up for his first clear view of James.
A handsome East Asian man, his dark hair slicked back in messy spikes from his forehead. Clean-cut, with sharp eyebrows and clear dimples framing his wicked smirk. He was around the same height as Bishop, from what Kit could tell, and just as well-built.
Unlike Bishop, James definitely wasn’t looking into Kit’s soul. His dark, ravenous gaze practically stripped away Kit’s hoodie and tank top, his attention crawling through the holes in Kit’s skinny jeans.
“Wow, he’s hot from this angle too.” James addressed Bishop, though his eyes never left Kit’s face. “It would be a shame to kill such a pretty thing.”
Oh. Was that what this was about?
Kit swallowed hard, not looking away. Like it was a test whether he would flinch or not. His pulse quickened in a sick sort of hope. The sweet rebellion of letting another man defile him.
He knew how to play this game—though with Uncle Ed’s friends, and the places he crashed before, he was always able to get out before he got too deep. All promise, no pain.
Just a promise might not be enough this time. But better fucked up than dead.
Kit tilted his head. Lowered his eyes. “Is that what you’re after? Let me blow you, then let me go?” Kit bit his lip for just a second, then forced his face into the half-smirk that always worked for him. “Doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me.”
James zeroed in on Kit’s mouth. “You’re just full of surprises.” He cocked his head towards Bishop. “What about my friend over there?”
Kit glanced at Bishop’s unreadable expression. “Your friend can watch if he wants.”
“Enough bullshit,” Bishop growled. “James, stop fucking with the boy. Kiddo, stop writing checks you can’t cash. You don’t want anything to do with this guy.”
Kit blinked, thrown off-balance by the sudden change of the game. Almost—no. He couldn’t be disappointed.
Maybe a little insulted.
James sighed dramatically. “You’re no fun, Bishop. Tell me you’re not hard as fuck right now. Right?” He moved away, leaving Kit’s neck cold in the absence of his touch. “Theadrenaline always gets you going, same as me. Remember that time—”
“James,” Bishop said sharply. “You don’t even know how old he is.”
“Oh. Right.” James turned to Kit. “How old are you, babe?”
“Twenty-two,” Kit said on reflex. That was what his fake ID said, and Smith made the best fakes in the world. At least, according to Smith.
“See?” James said with a grin. “Totally fuckable.”
But Bishop’s stern gaze didn’t waver. “How old are you really? I’m not about to card you.”
Kit stared. Why the fuck did it matter? “Nineteen.”
“Still fuckable,” James said, unperturbed.
Bishop rolled his eyes and picked up a duffel bag from the floor. Swung it over his shoulder and approached the other two. “We need to get out of here.” He glanced at Kit. “Are you going to be quiet, or do we need to gag you?”
“I’m not going to say anything.” Kit’s gaze darted from James, looking at him with an intense hunger. And Bishop, looking at him with a curiosity less heated, but more dangerous. “I won’t go to the cops. I won’t say anything. I don’t want any trouble.”
