Page 6 of Sinners Reunion

The man stares through the open doorway and nods absentmindedly. “Uh, yeah. Hey, were they . . . naked?”

The way he says naked—like it’s spelled nekkid—makes my toes curl. Maybe a southern accent isn’t such a bad thing . . .

“Yeah, I don’t know what that was about, but what were you saying about the boss man?”

“Oh, right.” He pulls up a chair and places it in front of me. The view is much improved. “Before that, though, you’re kind of a weird one, ain’t ya?”

“Way to make a girl feel good.”

“No, don’t take it that way,” he says with a laugh that heals some broken part of my soul. Or maybe I’m confusing that with a vagina tingle. The feeling is so similar. “Most girls just do a lot of hollering when we tie them up. Granted, we don’t tie up girls often. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

My eyes widen. “No, I’m definitely getting the wrong idea. Please explain.”

He glances around, then faces me again as he leans closer and licks his lips. “When I tell you this, I don’t want you to scream, okay?”

“No promises,” I say, though I’m not a screamer.

Then again, if he bends me over the credenza by the door, that might change.

“I’m only telling you this because you’re either safe to tell or you’ll be dead by morning anyway,” he says.

Wow, he really knows how to romance a girl. I keep my mouth shut only so that I can hear the rest.

“We’re all serial killers,” he says, face as somber as the grave.

Before I can think better of it, I laugh. Then I remember that he doesn’t know who I am. Aside from my many victims—and that asshole who left me pining for him one hot, rainy August evening—no one knows.

And I think I’d like to keep it that way.

The man folds his arms over his chest and leans back. “What’s so funny? This ain’t a joke. I know those two out there don’t look like it, but they’ve killed more people than you’ve seen with those green eyes of yours. My numbers might not be as high as theirs, but with Pick’s help, I’m climbing.”

“Oh, are you new to the murder life?” I ask, widening my eyes like I’m genuinely intrigued.

He bristles at this. “No. Not new. I just ain’t been at it as long as some of the other folks here.”

“Others? Is this a convention? For serial killers? And where is here?”

“This lake cabin? We’re in a little spot in Florida. We have to wait here until Jim⁠—”

“Blayne!” a voice barks from the open doorway.

I recognize the man from last night. Now I know his name is Lice Pick. How fucking odd when he has no hair on his head. Or is a chronic infestation why he’s opted for the bald look?

“We ain’t supposed to talk to her,” he says, “and she ain’t supposed to know our names.”

He screamed his friend’s name as he came in the door, but okay.

Blayne raises his hands. “My bad. You know how I am about a pretty girl.” He looks at me and winks.

“At least I didn’t fuck up and try to take this one,” Lice Pick says with a chuckle as he steps into the room.

What room? I still don’t fucking know. All I can see is a doorway and a window.

Lice Pick pulls up a chair beside his friend. He looks me straight in the face with a serious expression, all joviality cast aside. “I just did what the boss said to do, so when I was flirting with you last night, I didn’t mean it. You’re a pretty little thing, but I’m seeing someone.”

“Is she a serial killer too?” I ask.

Blayne winces and looks away when Lice Pick glares at him.