Page 113 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

I just shrug my shoulders in a show of hapless naivety. “Maybe? I don’t monitor where he goes or anything. So I guess he could be here if you say his car is outside.”

My eyes never leave his, and I fight to not look the least bit uncomfortable. I don’t want him to know how much he gets under my skin.

“This will be all for me, actually. And it’s really kind of your boss to cover it.” He nods and eases out of his seat, not leaving me a tip. I hadn’t expected him to, but my opinion of him lowers even more as he saunters out the door to the parking lot.

“What a jerk,” Jeremy mumbles in my ear, stopping to watch him go. “Not even a tip when we didn’t charge him for the coffee? Asshole.”

“At least he’s gone.” I sigh. “And so am I. Have a good Halloween, Jeremy.” It’s only two days away, and this year, I’m not dreading it nearly as much as usual.

I might even be looking forward to it, if I’m being honest.

As quickly as I can, I take my hair down and run a brush through it, then change out of my black pants and ugly but comfy shoes, into leggings and ankle boots. My shirt comes off next, replaced with an oversized hoodie that is the definition of comfortable, and maybe not very fashionable.

I’m back in the front of the diner within a few minutes, looking presentable for the outside world and smelling of fruity body spray instead of waitress suffering and contempt, like I usually do. But just as my hands land on the glass of the door, my eyes flick up and I see the problem immediately.

Trudeau is still here.

And he’s standing way too close to Cass. My heart takes that moment to thud against my ribs in warning, like I’ve somehow not seen them and it needs to inform me how bad of an idea this is. Or at least, how badly this situation could go.

“Cass!” I call, surprised when he doesn’t look up. Instead he’s leaning against his car, ankles crossed, the picture of relaxed. In contrast, Detective Trudeau looks anything but at ease. He crowds close to Cassian, keeping him against the car, with his hands hooked in his utility belt suspiciously close to the gun he has holstered there. But Cass doesn’t seem to care. His hands are shoved loosely in his pockets and his eyes radiate boredom.

Part of me wonders if it’s an act to piss off the detective. That seems like something Cassian would do.

I don’t slow down, even though it’s clear they’re having a private moment. My steps take me quickly over the asphalt, but when I open my mouth only a few feet away, my stalker holds up a hand, causing me to stop in place and not say a word.

His eyes flick to mine, a clear message that I’ve done the right thing. There’s a smile creeping over the edges of his lips, and when Trudeau turns to look at me, his expression is anything but friendly.

“You should pick better company, Winnifred. I’d think this boy would be the last person you’d ever want to be around.” His voice is low, tight, with a hint of something I really dislike. His words taste sour in my throat, and I press my lips together in an irritated scowl.

“I’m an adult and I can pick my own company⁠—”

“Makes me wonder what your mother would think if she could see you right now.” His words have the unintended effect of making me take a step back, and he must sense that it was the wrong thing to say by the look on my face. His brow furrows, and suddenly Cass is pushing off of the car, looming in the detective’s space without hesitation.

“Stop,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “You can insult me and threaten me all you like.” His words are slow, careful, and there’s an undercurrent of a threat that would be impossible to miss even if I didn’t know him. “You can tell me you’re just waiting for me to fuck up. Tell me again how you always have your gun with you. I don’t care, detective. But you will not bring her into this. You will not try to hurt her just to get a reaction from me. Do you understand me?”

Silence falls between them, and the two men just stare at each other for so long that I start to fidget. The air is cold enough that I shiver, even in my hoodie, but finally Trudeau lets out a breath. “I only meant it as⁠—”

“I don’t care how you meant it. You don’t know anything about her life, or her mother. Anything you’ve read in a file”—he sneers the word—“won’t give you a real picture of what happened. You’re not from Hayden Fields, Detective. You were never a part of what goes on here. And I suggest you stop trying to be. Go back to solving murders in Akron. Hell, do something useful and look for the person who committed murder here recently. Oh, that’s right…” His smile turns mocking. “You haven’t been looking, have you? Because you’ve been convinced it was me this whole time.”

Trudeau looks back at me, and I hear the warning sound that grates in Cass’s chest. “No, you don’t look at her, Detective. She has nothing to do with any of this. And neither do I, not that you’ll believe it. I paid for what I did all those years ago. And I’m not dumb enough to come back to my hometown near Halloween just to start killing. No matter how much you want that to be the case because of how easy it would be.”

I’ve never seen Cass be so…in control. So sure of himself that he’s all but threatening the detective. It’s kind of hot, if I’m honest with myself.

Okay, it’s really fucking hot to see him standing there, uncaring and unafraid of the detective or the gun his fingers are inching toward.

“Now, unless you have something you want to officially accuse me of…” Cass reaches a hand out toward me and I stride over to him, letting him curl his arm over my shoulders and drag me against his warm, solid frame. “I’m taking my girlfriend on a date tonight. If you need anything else, I’m sure you have my number and hers. Though I’d prefer you call me and leave her alone.”

I’m barely listening to the rest of what’s a thinly veiled threat at this point. How can I, when Cass’s words won’t stop playing on repeat in my head?

Girlfriend.

My girlfriend.

I’m his girlfriend? The words have a strange effect on me; especially the way my insides twist and flutter, as the butterflies are resurrected to fly in giddy, nervous circles in my stomach. Sure, we’re sleeping together. And he sort of lives with me at the moment.

And we’re going on a date.

Fuck, maybe I am his girlfriend. And maybe he’s my boyfriend, though those words somehow don’t quite fit.