I shook my head as another message popped up, turning on the sink to wash my hands.
Shay was fucking trouble.
I washed the blood off my knuckles, watching the red disappear into the colors of the sink. This home was built by some architecture nut. The sink itself was custom built fromstone cut out of red rock down in Southern Utah. It was red and orange with lines of gold.
Maybe it’s a Transporter situation—do you have hair?
Another message came through and I turned off the sink, then spun and leaned against it, facing a wooden, arched window. In the day, evergreen trees topped with snow would be in clear, vibrant view. But at night, up here in the mountains, it was just black.
Or, oh, wait, I know. You’re a drug runner.
I started to respond. Then stopped. What the fuck was I thinking? I’d already told her my biggest fucking secret. I needed to be out of Utah ASAP in case Shay decided to do the normal thing and call the police.
No, you’re definitely smuggling illegal animals.
Before I could stop myself, I responded.
You’re supposed to be afraid.
Maybe. Probably. I’m not really afraid of something bad happening. Might be too used to bad things.
I dragged a hand down my face.
That was what I feared.
I’d been keeping track of the questions she deflected or half answered. All of them pointed to something dark. Which meant this wasn’t a game to her, and she actuallywouldmeet me.It was trauma. It was maybe a little disassociation and self-sabotage.
This was dangerous.
But, fuck, I was curious.
What bad things?
Almost instantly, Shay sent a photo instead of answering.
Her shirt was off, an arm crossed to cover her tits.
Fuck.
She was agoddess.Something out of an old Renaissance painting, a worship of Aphrodite. Breasts like overripe peaches.Soft.
Badfuckingidea.
My eyes narrowed on something just off-screen behind her—a bottle of vodka. Was shedrunk?I grabbed the bloody towel I’d used to dry off, tossing it in the hamper as I sent:
Go back to bed, Maniac.
I can’t.
Why?
Goddamn it. I cursed myself for sending a response. All that control I carefully crafted fucking shattered with her. But I wanted—no,needed—to know why she couldn’t sleep. Somewhere along the way, my curiosity had transformed into a carnal need.
I had a nightmare.
I sat on top of the covers on my bed, resting against the headboard. A floor-to-ceiling window that, like my bathroom,would show a forest of trees in the day, but now shone black. Next to me, a stack of research papers I couldn’t begin to understand, but had tried, because Shay wrote them.
Do you have nightmares a lot?
