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“Do you want me to thank you for that?”
“I can see a little one growing on your lip.” Her eyes widen and she brushes a finger across her upper lip. It’s a satisfying sight, seeing her put off. “I know I’m not in the position to ask you for anything, but I am in the position to point out that you’re being a real inconsiderate bitch right now.”
Her eyebrow twitches and her jaw flexes. “Do you think I care?”
“Yes, I do.”
A quick sigh. I can’t tell if she’s indulging me, or if she really cares. Either way, I’m drugged and clearly not going anywhere, so I might as well fuck with her, since she plans to kill me. I mean, what’s the worst she could do?
“You’re a real asshole. Which doesn’t surprise me, because I know what you’ve done. But it is surprising that you’d be such an asshole right up to the end. Most people, they repent right before they die.”
“Did I do something to you? I don’t remember your face, so we didn’t hook up, because your face is pretty memorable — pretty, even with that bushy mustache. And your morning-after attitude — it is morning, right? — is also something I’d remember if we had slept together. So we didn’t fuck, and I didn’t stiff you on tips because I always tip my doctor… so who the fuck are you and why do you want to Hannibal Lecter me?”
She frowns, which deepens the dimples in her cheeks, and makes me bite back an unwanted moan; I meant what I said when I said she was pretty, but now I realize that was an understatement. This woman is outright fucking beautiful. She has a hard edge, sure, and she’s absolutely fucking insane, but that doesn’t change the objective truth that looking at her makes my blood race. Then she takes a long drink of her coffee, releases a soft sigh, and comes so close she’s right in my face. Fiery eyes, plump lips curled in a snarl, and she smells faintly like roses.
“Look closely.”
“Not an unpleasant suggestion.”
“Fuck you. Do you see it?”
“Are you fishing for compliments? Because you don’t need to — you’re gorgeous. Psycho, but gorgeous. Does that validate you?”
“Thanks, shithead. So, you’re saying you don’t see the resemblance?”
“Shit, did I fuck someone you’re related to? A sister? A cousin?” I pause. “Your mom? Did I fuck your mom?”
“My brother.”
I blink. Then question a lot of things about myself.
“I fucked your brother? Shit, I’m sorry, I don’t even remember. And I would think I would remember if I fucked your brother, so I must’ve been real fucking drunk or your brother just sucks at sex so bad that I didn’t even know there was another dick in the sexual equation.”
I’ve done a lot of fucked up things in my life, including being an asshole to the kind people who were only trying to help me get my life together, like Striker’s sister, Natalie, but I don’t recall banging a dude. Not that I have anything against the people that enjoy it, but I would’ve thought I’d remember the novelty of having sex with a man and whether I liked it.
Maybe I’m missing out.
Maybe if I make it out of this mess alive, I need to call Moose.
“You didn’t fuck my brother.”
“You implied I did. If I did, did he say anything about it? Was I good? Did everyone involved enjoy it? I don’t like that there’s a mysterious chapter of my life that I know nothing about.”
“You’re really making me want to slit your throat right now.”
“Pardon me for being curious about whether I found satisfaction in another man’s penis. If your brother awakened something within me, I want to know about it.”
“It wasn’t sex. You didn’t fuck my brother. You murdered him,” she says. She throws her coffee in my face, the hot liquid raising pain down my cheeks and neck. “He was a good person, he was my best friend, and you fucking murdered him.”
“I’ve killed a lot of people, lady.”
“Lady? My name is Alexandra. Alexandra Reyes.”
“So you weren’t lying about that?”
“No, I want you to know who’s going to kill you.”
“Your brother was Lucas Reyes?”
