“Did you feel anything when you killed them?”
“You need to be a reporter,” I tell her. “You’re so inquisitive.”
She shakes her head. “Nah, I don’t like people that much, and I’m quite the loner. We’re not talking about me; we’re talking about you.”
“Bossy,” I say, and she smiles. “No, it used to fuck with me, but I have a friend who works as a hitman too. Taught me how to numb myself while doing it. It’s good money, and I never succeeded at school, so I relied on street smarts to get me by.”
Sadness lingers in her pupils. She feels sorry for me, and she shouldn’t. I love my life. It’s not perfect, and I’m a loner as well, but I don’t regret it.
“What happened to your parents?”
“I don’t know. My mother dropped me off at a fire station and left me there. I was in the system until I was adopted at one.”
She doesn’t respond for several moments, and then she frowns, and tears gloss over her eyes. “I never knew my parents. They were killed by the cops in a shoot-out when I was a baby, so my mother’s sister raised me. My father was a serial killer and murdered over fifty people.”
“Is that why you study serial killers?” I ask.
She nods slightly. “I feel like if I study them, I could understand him, ya know? My childhood was lonely, so I watched anime to escape my reality.”
She was lonely and was raised by a single parent like I was. My adoptive mom was good to me, but sadly she died from a heart defect. “Mine was too. But I got into basketball, and my job was an escape from reality. I like working alone.”
“Me too. Which is why I chose doing a podcast for a living. It doesn’t pay much now, but it will get there.”
Despite our age gap, we have a lot in common. More than I thought. And I’m going to help her with her podcast so she can be successful.
Her pupils dilate. “I often wonder if I would turn out like my father. But I see I’m more like my mother, who’s sweet and attracted to bad guys and turns a blind eye to the bullshit the men she dates do.”
Every single person on this planet is fucked up in one way or another, so who am I to judge her? She’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she’s smart. Probably smarter than most people I know.
“I’m going back to school in the fall to get my master’s in criminal psychology.”
I lean down and kiss her shoulder. “How will our relationship work? You’ll be dating someone who kills while working to stop people like me.”
I see her pulse thumping through her neck, and she twirls her silk hair around her finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself with the dating, besides I’m not getting my degree to stop the bad guys, I’m doing it to study them, and maybe write a book about them or my parents.”
Her words pierce my heart. Maybe I am getting ahead of myself, but I can’t picture myself without her or being with someone else for the rest of my life. Never had I ever thought of dating someone long-term, and marriage is a pipe dream I used to have until I realized they don’t last long, but with her, if she wanted to elope, then I probably would. I’ll do anything to keep a smile on her pretty face.
“What’s your real name?” she asks, yawning.
“Demonte Zunino. What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
“Clear blue. The color of the ocean in the Maldives. Although I’ve never been there, but I’ve seen it on YouTube.” She smiles. “You want to finish watchingYou?”
I’d rather watch paint dry than watch this boring show, but if it makes her happy, then I will. “Sure.”
I hold her until we both pass out on the couch.
Autumn
Afew weeks pass, and my days are spent talking about life, fucking, sleeping, and going to work. I learn he’s a neat freak, and his favorite food is lobster; his favorite music is rock and country, whereas mine is rap and pop. He believes in fate and the universe, and I don’t. He doesn’t watch TV, and he likes to clean his gun and sit out on the balcony and look at the city.
When Viper works at odd times of the night, I research different serial killers from different countries, trying to come up with new material for my podcast for the next week. I’ve also filled out five college applications. I hope to get accepted into New York University; they have a good psychology program.
Today, he’s having his friends over for poker night, and I’m so nervous about meeting them. What if they don’t like me? What if they’re stuck-up, snotty people? I stand in front of the mirror that’s hanging on the door connected to the bathroom, which he bought me a few days ago, trying on different fabrics.
“I like the brown shirt and black skirt and the ankle boots better,” his deep, rich voice booms from the door.
My gaze snaps to his stormy grays, and I squeal, nearly jumping out of my skin. I press my hand to my chest, exhaling loudly. “Don’t ever sneak up on me again.” I tilt my head to the side, then throw on the clothes he said he liked. “How long have you been standing there watching me?”
