Page 25 of Spitfire

My jaw clenches tightly, and I feel myself quickly losing control to the anger rising inside of me. "Let's cut the shit, shall we, Scarlett? I was a massive cunt to you and your... partner," I grit out. "You can feel free to cuss me out, maybe even throw my drink in my face if you feel so inclined."

She inclines her head and stares at me through those dark chocolate eyes, and it makes me wonder what she's truly witnessing. Can she see right through the facade I wear like a second skin? Does she glimpse the man and the monster underneath? We share similar drives: to be the best at what we do. The difference is, she thinks the best way to accomplish that is to catch killers like Ashmaker and me. Whereas I know she would feel so much better if she just let herself be unrestrained, and followed her more primal instincts. There's a lot to be said for staining one's hands with the blood of others; it's a very freeing state of mind.

"How very gracious of you." She snorts, and it's fucking adorable. "Telling me what I should feel, and how I should behave towards you. Do you make the same offer to all your dinner companions?"

The waiter comes over and interrupts us before I can respond, and I stew in my need to keep her interacting with only me. "What is your most expensive bottle of wine?" She inquires without looking in my direction.

"That would be our Château Margaux, madame, at just over nineteen hundred dollars a bottle." The waiter replies with excitement. Ah shit, I should have known she would make me pay for my earlier deeds one way or the other. It looks like my bank account will be taking the hit tonight.

Better that than your face, don't you think?

She raises an eyebrow in my direction, but I keep my lips sealed, refusing to contradict her. "We'll take that, please." She opens the menu in front of her, and I watch with amusement as her long black nail trails down the offerings, and I can guess with certainty that she's about to select the most expensive items on the menu. "I'll take the Grand Caviar Service to start, and the Kobe Wagyu Beef as my main."

A quick glance at the menu in front of me reveals that she's ordered another thousand dollars' worth of food. Jesus fuck. It will be fine, everything will be okay, and she's worth it, I reassure myself. To be this close to her, I would pay anything, even for overpriced fish eggs.

I'm starting to really like this chick; she knows how to fuck with you.

The waiter looks at me expectantly, and I mumble with a visceral gulp to bring me the same, despite having already selected something else much cheaper in my head. I have money, enough to get by and live comfortably, but I'm not fucking rolling in it either, at least not yet. The journalist thing is mainly a cover story for me, and most of my income primarily comes from the dark web. My skills, let's say, are high-priced commodities.

Once we are alone, and her attention is solely on me again, I try to clarify what I meant. "I don't... umm... make the same offer. I... fuck, I'm making it worse, aren't I?" Her lips quirk upwards in enjoyment, the little sadist. I'm floundering like a teenager on his first date, and right now I don't know how to fix it. No woman has ever made me feel this awkward and self-conscious. Everything in me wants her to fall for me, to want me just as much as I want her, and she will. I'll make damn sure of it. She's my Spitfire, mine, not anyone else's.

You sure about that? She looked really cozy with her partner earlier. He even drove her around. They spend a lot of time alone with each other. I'll bet he fucks her real good.

SHUT THE FUCK UP! I blare inside my head, feeling my blood pressure rise right along with my body's temperature.

"Tell me about yourself, Xavier," she requests, nodding to the waiter who has reappeared with the bottle of wine that costs more than the monthly lease on my loft. He pours for both of us before slinking away like the little weasel he is, and I think about how to respond to her request.

Yeah, Xavier, go ahead and tell her how you like to clean up after murderers, and like to do a little torture, mutilation, and killing of your own. It should go over really well with the FBI agent.

"I... I grew up right here in the city," I blurt out, and want to instantly slap myself with how pathetic that sounded.

"Where did you receive your journalism degree?" Damn, going right to the nitty-gritty. I know for a fact that with just a few swipes through her FBI database, she'd have that information available to her. Is she testing me to see if I deviate from my story? I won't. I built my cover to withstand the highest scrutiny, even the FBI's. The truth is I never went to college, and everything I know about the world is self-taught. I've always been a sponge with a photographic memory.

"Browns. You went to the University of Maryland, correct?" Two can play at this game, Scarlett, and I guarantee that I know a lot more about you than you do about me.

"Significant other, parents, siblings," she questions while taking a sip of the expensive wine, a dark red drop remaining on her bottom lip. I watch as her tongue lashes seductively at it, and it has my cock rising to full attention and straining against my zipper.

"Are you profiling me, Scarlett, or am I auditioning for something?" I chuckle.

Yeah, a death sentence, and a one-way ticket to an electric chair.

"Interesting choice of words, Xavier. Why would I be profiling you? Do you have something to hide?" She leans forward in her chair, giving me an amazing glimpse of her breasts in the snug bodice of her dress. My mind misfires, all my thoughts revolving only on how delicious she probably tastes, and how she'd be moaning my name while I suck on her hard, pebbled nipples I can see clearly in the outline of the fabric.

You should get up and leave while you still can, fool. You're playing with fire here.

"I'm an open book, Scarlett. Can we say the same about you?"

NINETEEN

SCARLETT

"I'm an open book, Scarlett. Can we say the same about you?" His question rattles something inside of me. Something that knows that not only are my secrets dark, but they're cavernous.

Xavier Poine is an intriguing character. I'd done a little research on him before arriving tonight. It was one of the reasons I was late. The other was that I just wanted to fuck with him, and make him sweat, thinking I wasn't coming, and his plan had failed from the get-go.

He has no criminal record, a parking ticket or two, and went to an Ivy League college on a full scholarship. Yet there was no record of his high school attendance, and it makes me wonder if he was homeschooled. He's almost nine years younger than I am, and as far as I could find, there wasn't much on his social media that didn't involve his job as a reporter. He currently works for an online news outlet and, before that, a few local community papers, where he always worked as the crime reporter. He's squeaky clean, too clean, and that raises alarm bells in my head. He's a reporter. I expected at least an obstruction charge or a misdemeanor.

I stare at his smooth, alabaster complexion that tells me he avoids the sun, and has a better skincare regimen than I do. His large, expressive, light gray eyes, tinged with hints of sky blue, and long lashes I would kill for, are dramatic, and by far his most stunning feature. Not that the rest of him isn't equally impressive, with his pale blond hair that almost looks white in certain lights, and his broad shoulders and defined chest beneath his fitted gunmetal gray button-down shirt. He obviously takes care of himself. The full sleeves of tattoos on his arms, which I can see from where he's rolled up his shirt sleeves, are filled with black, shaded images of vines, demons, and representations of death, and stand out starkly against his almost translucent skin. His clothes are well-made, understated but not flashy, as if he doesn't try to impress anyone, despite his attempts tonight. He's a puzzle I'm not seeing all the pieces of yet, and that intrigues me.