14. Zyran #2
“Yeah,” she blurts out, pulling me back from the murderous rage hitting me, and gestures vaguely to the tarp. “You know, like laundry, it’s like murder laundry.”
A laugh, mostly a snort, slips out of me, sudden and rough, almost like it doesn’t belong to me. It startles both of us, and I have to pause, breath catching because I can’t remember the last time a sound like that came out of my chest.
Her brows lift. “Did you just?—”
“We’re not talking about it.” I cut her off, not wanting to hear anything about the snort that just came out of me.
“Well…at least we know you think I’m funny.”
“That’s debatable,” I lied.
She huffs, rolling her eyes and stomping her foot just a tad bit. Brat. Hmmm, I think I could like this.
My cock begins to harden painfully fast in my pants, pressing against the zipper.
It’s enough that my vision blurs, and I have to drag my gaze back to the rope, forcing my hands to keep working, to keep tying, anything to focus on.
Even if that’s the body on the ground and not the girl I’ve been obsessed with standing in front of me, acting like she didn’t just help wrap a corpse and still has enough attitude to stomp her foot about it.
Jesus fuck.
She shifts her weight, still watching me like she's trying to solve a puzzle and I’m the last piece. There’s a certain spark in her eyes, sharp and defiant, not broken, but bold.
She’s dangerous, and I’m the willing soul ready to walk through the fire.
My mind betrays me immediately.
I imagine that same fire directed at me, her mouthing off, and my hand at the back of her neck, guiding her through it. She’d probably glare, not wanting to give in when we both know she will.
“That was a premium line; I should charge you for it,” she says, pulling my head out of the gutter. “So, you do this a lot?”
“You always ask people that while helping them hide bodies?”
She presses her lips together, trying to hide a smile. “This is my first time, actually. I’m just trying to establish a baseline, are you like a serial killer, or is this more of a freelance situation?”
My heart skips a beat, pulse freezing for just a second. You’d think since I literally kill people for money, I’d be better at people joking about serial killers.
But here I am, blinking like an idiot.
“Freelance,” I finally say, giving her my best fake laugh.
Thankfully she doesn’t question me but nods her head like it makes perfect sense. “Got it, independent contractor of violence.”
Dropping my gaze down, I smile despite hating how close she is to the truth and how she doesn’t even know it. But no amount of self-control I try to drill into my head, I’m unable to leave her alone.
I grab the last length of the rope and loop it around the middle, and just as I’m about to lift it a little to slide it underneath, Esperr reaches down, our hands brushing slightly.
“You’re weirdly good at this,” I say.
“Uh… my family, we moved around a lot when I was a kid. I guess you learn how to pack things tight so nothing shifts.”
Her words are casual, almost offhand, but they don’t land the way she thinks they do. Moved around a lot. It’s harmless, the kind of thing people say when they want to sound normal. But the way she says it, the way she won’t look at me, there’s weight behind it.
I don’t say anything, not because I’m not curious, but because pushing might make her shut down, and something tells me she doesn’t open doors like that often.
So once the knot is firm enough, I rise to my feet, saying, “Alright, he’s not going anywhere.”
She lets out a breath, long and slow, like she’d been holding her breath the entire time.
Glancing at the tarp and then back at me.
“So, I don't know about you, but I’ve worked up quite the appetite. Do we wanna get pizza after this?” my head snaps in her direction.
“Oh sorry, is there a rule? No carbs post-murder?”
I stare at her for a second, completely dumbfounded. Can she get even more perfect? Food and murder, just my type of fun. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Is that a no?” she asks, sticking her bottom lip out
My eyes drop before I can stop them, straight to her mouth.
Soft and slightly pouting, naturally pink, a little blue from the cold, and red from the way she keeps gnawing at the corner.
For a split moment, the world narrows to just that, to the shape of her lips, to how easy it would be to step forward, tip her chin up, and to find out after all this time what she tastes like—probably as sweet as she looks.
My jaw tightens, and my hands form into fists to stop myself from reaching out to her. Dragging my gaze up to her eyes, I push the idea of wanting to basically mount the girl and say, “You’re seriously thinking about food right now?” My voice is a touch rougher than I’d like.
Esperr grins, completely unaware of the war that’s happening inside my head and in my pants. “What can I say? Adrenaline crash. Plus, near-death experiences make me hungry, and this is probably the worst meet-cute I’ve ever had; might as well get some food out of it.”
Of course they do.
“Meet-cute?” I question, frowning.
“Yeah.” she gestures between us and then the tarp. “You, me, Dean, who’s wrapped up like a sad burrito. It’s almost like a rom-com.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” she says casually, shrugging her shoulders.
I stand there, looking at her, the way she can joke about death one second and then go quiet the next without missing a beat. There’s more to her than just sarcasm and quick comebacks—there are layers and something she’s not saying.
And for the first time, I realized this wasn’t just some girl; I wanted to know what is going on inside her mind; I want every piece of it.
The thought settles low in my chest, and I know I’m going to lose against that little piece of myself that says she’s better off without me.
I clear my throat and glance at my truck. “Come on, let’s get rid of your Dean burrito and then maybe I’ll buy you breakfast.”
And just like that, her grin comes back fast—as if the darkness of the alley never even touched her.