“What’s your real job?” he asked, clearly not expecting a reply because he followed it up with, “Oh! Why do you have a murder locker in your laundry room?”
My footsteps stuttered. Gazing down at him, I said, “A murder locker?”
He shrugged. “Well, what do you call it?”
“An at-home armory.”
“John Wick would call it a murder locker.”
Imagine my horror when this sweet doll face told me his favorite movie was about a violent hitman. A completely far-fetched and absurd hitman.
“John Wick is stupid.”
Haz gasped as if I’d committed treason. Actually, I did once, and no one was this appalled.Dramatic.
“He killed five people with a pencil.” He sniffed. “He doesn’t even need a murder locker.”
Stalking into the bathroom, I set Haz on the marble countertop between the sinks and reached over to turn on a light. Glowering, I turned back. “It was two.”
“Two?”
“That hack of a hitman only killed two people with a pencil.”
“It was five!”
“I suffered through that movie with you just yesterday. It was two.” Frankly, I didn’t see what the big deal was with the pencil. I once killed a man with a paperclip, but you don’t see me bragging.
“Twoon screen. But they reference how he killed three others in a bar off screen.” He defended that long-haired, walking bag of unresolved trauma.
It was good that he always looked dressed for a funeral because, if I met him, I’d send him to his.
“It doesn’t count.” I refused.
“Why?”
“Because I said so,” I snapped, stepping away to peel off my ruined clothing.
“Are you jealous?”
“Of that fictional grudge holder? No.”
“Because I like him.”
My pants hit the floor with a smack, and I reached into the shower to turn on the water. Haz gasped, the sound so loud I heard it over the falling water.
I glanced back just as he catapulted himself off the counter.
“Watch your knee,” I groused.
He didn’t listen—did he ever?—and rushed over, his hands cool against the skin of my back as he pushed me around. “What happened to you?” he demanded, his fingers gently brushing against my side.
I looked down at the large bruise, dismissing it almost immediately. “It’s fine.”
“Are you kidding? It’s bigger than my entire hand.”
“Your hands are small,” I retorted, but it was half-hearted because those small hands formed a small frame for the discolored section while he leaned in to gently kiss it.
The breath in my lungs withered like plants denied of sun, while my brain dropped offline like a radio unplugged. For long moments, there was nothing but his lips and the solace they offered to a wound I would have ignored as if it weren’t there. Comfort was not for men forged in war and kept alive because they became death.
