Chapter 2 Bunny - Seven months earlier
“Harder.” My throaty request fills the small room, candlelight flickering across the walls.
Fingertips dig deeper. A thin sheen of sweat slicks my skin. A cool sigh ghosts across my shoulder blades.
My back arches when he hits the spot I need him most. “Oh, fuck. Right there! Don’t stop. Right there—harder!”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” The only other soul in the room sounds genuinely frustrated as he tests my body’s limits.
He’s almost got me there. I can feel it—feel him digging in, winding that spot tighter and tighter until—
“Fuck!” The knot finally gives, and I melt into a puddle beneath Mateo’s very skilled fingers.
“Do you always have to make our sessions sound so sexual, Buns? I swear the girls think I give you a happy ending.” He eases up on the muscle beneath my shoulder blade, working out a much smaller knot that collapses almost instantly.
“Happy ending, indeed.” I sigh contentedly.
“What’s got you so wound up?” He laughs, heading for a warm towel so I can wipe the oil from my body before I get in the sauna. I hate being slippery.
“Work’s just been… tough lately.” Tough is an understatement—but it’s an inconvenience I accept willingly.
It’s not like I have to work. Turns out, killing my abusive husband came with a mountain of life insurance. Technically, I’m set for life. It’s not like being an investigative assistant is my dream job. It’s just something I’m good at. Something to fill the hours.
Definitely not because of a six-foot-two, dark-haired detective with whiskey-colored eyes and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. A dick who lives to turn my life into a perpetual inferno of tension, lust, and animosity—especially when he keeps requesting me on his cases.
And it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that said detective asked for another woman’s number right in front of me today, fully aware it would piss me off.
“Boss putting you through the wringer? I haven’t seen you with this many knots since…” Mateo winces before finishing the thought. He doesn’t realize my life actually got a hell of a lot easier after Nathaniel’s death.
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “And yeah. It’s just been... tense. Physically demanding.”
I don’t elaborate. My job at Metro PD is fun—I don’t even feel like it’s work half the time. And while Detective Dick, a.k.a. Hunter Remington, and I may have a tangled past, present, and likely future, that job isn’t the kind of work I meant.
But it’s not like I can admit my second job involves killing men who abuse their wives. Or admit that I currently have a five-ten sack of shit chained in my basement—kept alive purely so I can take my frustrations out on him.
Mateo leaves while I gather my things, waiting outside with a glass of cucumber-lemon water and a wink. “Same time next week?”
“You know it.”
I toss my stuff into a locker and grab my sauna-safe AirPods.
I always pick a locker close to the sauna so I can listen to an audiobook while I’m in there.
I’m behind on my buddy read with my best friend—and fellow serial killer—Dove, and she expects me to be finished before we meet at the bar later.
The sauna is empty when I slip inside. Eucalyptus-scented haze clings to my skin, instantly melting my muscles as I settle in the corner closest to the door.
My ears fill with the voice of a queen fighting for her kingdom—and the lover she can’t have. I chose it because the dynamic mirrors mine a little too well.
A chance meeting with a forbidden love is followed by a tragic accident. The rest of the duet is her pushing him away while he refuses to give up on her.
Literally my life in a nutshell.
“I thought you said you didn’t need any cocktail waitresses?” I lift a brow as the girl in question nearly faceplants ducking behind the bar. She glances around to see if anyone noticed, missing the puzzled glare I’m pinning her with.
I turn back to my favorite bartender—Alex—who also happens to own The Tipsy Taco, the unofficial watering hole for cops and reporters alike. He avoids my eyes, his creamy cheeks flushing pink.
“We’ve been getting busier.” He shrugs, pouring electric-blue liquor into a shaker. His wavy sand-colored hair flops over his forehead as he sneaks another glance at the clumsy blonde.
It’s her first night, and she’s already spilled drinks twice. I know how hard it is to weave through a crowd with a tray, but I’m five-foot-two. Vixey, Alex’s new girl, has to be pushing five-nine. She should have the advantage.
“What’s got you in a mood?” Dove murmurs at my side, sliding over two tequila shots.
“Oh, you know. Just Detective Dick being his normal self today.” I toss it back. The burn slides down my throat, settling warm and low in my belly.
I glance at my best friend’s perfectly painted face.
We’re polar opposites. Where my clothing consists of black leather with the occasional pop of color, Dove Carroway lives in pinks and whites.
Her hair is big, blonde, and bouncy. Mine’s raven-dark, thick, and falls in a glossy sheet to the middle of my back.
She’s all porcelain and cream; I’m sunkissed gold. We’re salt and pepper personified.
Though on the inside, we carry the same darkness. It’s why we bonded when our paths crossed chasing the same target. Dove likes to kill men who prey on children. I prefer men who abuse their wives—our life experiences shaping our adult extracurriculars.
A shrill cackle snaps our heads toward the pool tables lined up near the bathrooms. Dove and I sigh in unison.
Hunter—the bane of my existence. And Wrenley—his best friend, Dove’s work rival and current obsession—surrounded by a pack of bachelorette-party blondes.
A leggy woman wearing a glowing veil presses against Hunter’s chest as she snaps a selfie. Her friends shriek, marking something off a paper list before scattering. The bride hangs back, her French-tipped claws hooked into his crisp white shirt.
“You know, Ryan said he wasn’t coming tonight. Maybe we should just go…” Dove suggests.
Ryan’s a cop at Metro PD, and Dove’s on-again, off-again hookup. Judging by the way she and Wrenley keep sneaking looks at each other, he’s about to get kicked off her roster.
Hunter’s eyes snap to mine, so very aware of my attention even half a room apart. His whiskey-colored gaze narrows, daring me to cross the bar and stake a claim I have no right to. He leans closer to the woman, focus never leaving mine as he gives her that famous panty-melting smile.
This is what we do. A game we both keep losing, yet still play after three years.
My teeth catch my bottom lip, worrying at the permanently dented spot from nights like this. Watching him. Wanting him. Hating that I do.
“No, it’s fine. Besides, I know you’d rather be checking out the blond hottie.” I smirk at Dove, the motion crinkling the gold foil stars scattered over the scar at the high point of my left cheekbone.
“Oh, you hush.” She swats my arm, glancing around to ensure no one heard me. “I’m not checking him out!”
“Uh huh. You’ve eye-fucked him twice since we sat down.” I grab another shot, snagging a plump lime wedge to chase it.
“I think you’re deflecting. Everyone in here can feel the tension between you and Detective Dick.” Her bright blue eyes sparkle with mischief. I roll mine.
“She’s right. Your pheromones are making me uncomfortable,” Alex chimes in with a laugh.
His biceps flex under his red-and-black flannel, and for a split second, I wish I could be into him instead of the dark-haired devil who rents too much space in my brain.
“Shut it. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
He does, though. Alex has heard every messy detail of our love lives. It’s why he’s our favorite bartender.
“I think you guys would make a cute couple.”
Vixey appears on my other side, smiling as she reaches for a row of drinks. She’s almost as bubbly as Dove, but I don’t know her—and I don’t appreciate her acting like she knows me.
I open my mouth to set her straight, but the highball glass she grabs catches the lip of the bar and tumbles—straight into my lap.
“What the fuck!” I jolt upright as icy liquid splashes over my vinyl leggings, dripping onto the floor.
Slowly, I lift my head, eyes narrowed, lips turned down, my gaze locking with Vixey’s wide, honeyed look of horror. A visible shudder racks her body, her bottom lip trembling.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” She fumbles for napkins, trying to pat me down. Thankfully, my pants are waterproof. Doesn’t mean she isn’t testing my patience.
Alex tosses me a clean rag with a wince. “Sorry, Buns.”
“At least you’re wearing these pants,” Dove says, snatching the rag to help. She flicks Vixey a pointed look that clearly says leave.
I take it from her before anything splashes onto her taffy-pink skirt. “At least I’m wearing black,” I grumble. “Alex, I expect the next round to be on you.” I flash him a saccharine smile, lips tight with sarcasm.
To his credit, he doesn’t argue, just lines up shot glasses and reaches for the Patrón. I toss the damp rag aside and let my gaze drift back to the pool tables. The bride’s gone. Hunter and Wrenley are mid-game.
Hunter checks his watch, then pulls out his phone from his back pocket, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s made plans with the woman whose number he asked for earlier. The thought carves a hollow pit in my chest, filling it with adrenaline and anxiety.
We’re not together. He can do whatever he wants, as I so often remind him.
It shouldn’t be this difficult—love. You meet, you fall, and you vow to spend the rest of your life together. It’s simple.
Only it’s not.
Love is riddled with stipulations and expectations. A ring comes with rules that, rarely, both people follow. And even when you make a promise, you still find ways to break it.
Love makes people crazy. It rewires them. You can’t promise to be the same person a year from now—let alone twenty.
Love hurts, even when the pain isn’t intentional.