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“I need you to pretend you don’t know me on this trip. Forget who I am. I’m nobody.”
He takes a hearty swig of sun-warmed beer. “Can I call you the Crumpet Killer?”
Why do Americansalwayscome at the crumpets?
“That’s not your name, is it?” asks a sing-song voice behind me. It’s not the lusty, mildly bitchy tone of Kindra, which means it’s her blonde friend. The only other female killer on the island is Maudlin Rose, and she doesn’t speak at all.
I turn and hope she only heard the tail end of this conversation.
“Yes, I am The Crumpet Killer,” I say, because what the fuck else can I do? I’m now tied to this stupid name. Though I’m enraged, I’m equally amused and hysterical, and I struggle to keep a straight face. My happiness is on the line if I don’t. “Where’s Kindra?”
“She’s over there with . . . um . . . the guy with the mullet.”
I follow her finger to the pavilion and spot Kindra just within the comfort of the shade. Her dark hair whips around her face as she tries to hold it back with her hand. She looks angelic and so out of place compared to the man beside her on the picnic bench.
His wild blond mullet blows behind him as he points toward me, laughing with lips that are covered by one of the worst porno mustaches I’ve ever seen.
“Eighties Man.” Fuck, I haven’t gotten to him yet.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Cat says.
I’m typically a very calm person. You don’t survive this career by allowing emotions to control you. But I am at their utter control as I watch his squirrelly finger pointing at me.
What has he told her? All I imagine is him saying, “Oh, there’s the Abattoir Adonis!”
And my god, I’m not panicking inside as I make my way over to them to see if Kindra will try to kill me. No amount of orgasms will stay her hand once she learns who I am. Judging by the scowl on her face, I may already be too late.
Chapter Eleven
Kindra
Ezra and Cat head toward me, and Ezra can hardly look me in the eye. Why does he look like someone just pushed his puppy into a puddle?
“Did you know he’s The Crumpet Killer?” Cat says with a laugh. Right in front of him. She’s shameless.
The man beside me—Eighties, as he’s asked me to call him—shifts in his seat and opens his mouth, but Ezra interrupts him.
“You two never told me your names,” he says in that smooth British accent.
Cat raises her chin, more than happy to have a chance to use the backstory we’ve created. “I’m the Cat Scratch Killer and she’s the Sunlig?—”
“SunshineStrangler,” I blurt before she blows our fucking cover. I throw daggers at her with my eyes, and she mouths,I’m sorry. She made up the damn names. She should be able to remember them.
The man beside me scratches his head. “I’m confused.”
“Why don’t we grab some drinks, Eighties?” Ezra says.
The mulleted wonder stares at Ezra before getting up and walking with him toward the pavilion’s tiki bar. As I watch the two men walk away, my chest tightens as memories of my time with Ezra flash through my head.
Even though I planned to cut him off once we reached the island so that I could focus on finding my brother’s killer, it still hurts that he beat me to the punch. He’s been distant since we joined the mile high club. What changed?
“I’d love a vodka tonic!” Cat yells toward them.
I turn to Cat. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
“I’m twenty-two.”
Ezra brushes sweat from his forehead, still avoiding my gaze as he turns around. “They only offer beer and wine coolers until after the welcome party.”
