The Trouble with Trying to Date a Murderer (Murder Sprees and Mute Decrees #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

O nce upon a time, a mute boy fell in love with an unapologetic murderer.

Ok, it happened last Thursday at the diner where I’d worked for all of thirty minutes before a man wearing shit kickers, a black A-shirt, yoga pants, and like a hundred pounds of guns and ammo came into the diner and called out, “Steak and eggs, scrambled with sourdough, and a black coffee.”

The man didn’t even sit, he just announced his order.

And then all hell broke loose.

Every patron in the diner started attacking him with bullets and knives and their bodies.

All the man wanted was some breakfast and suddenly all the other customers wanted him dead.

I watched in absolute horror with my back pressed up against the wall as the man shredded every person in the diner.

It wasn’t even a one-at-a-time thing. I saw him get a two-fer with one of his hand guns, and when one of my customers tried to get him with a sword—like, where did he even get a fucking sword?

—the man stole the sword and skewered two people onto one of the metal tables.

With the goddamn sword . By the time the stragglers were starting to realize that thirty against one was maybe a bit unfair odds in his favor, the diner was probably never going to reopen, and I wasn’t holding out much hope of getting paid for my hour.

As the last person dropped with a death gurgle, the cook rang the bell. “Order up!”

The man, breathing hard and covered in the crimson flow of life and death—i.e., blood—looked at me, straightened his back, and adjusted his armory. “Can I get that to go?”

And that’s how I ended up boxing up a murderer’s breakfast and possibly falling in love, because even though he wasn’t particularly handsome or incredibly charming, he was competent and self-possessed, and if no one ever told you that confidence is sexy, then allow me to be the first: confidence is sexy.

Full stop. I don’t care what you look like or if you have a bad personality or if you’re homely. Confidence. Is. Sexy.

And really, it’s not like I hadn’t been through two other mass murders in my life.

This wasn’t my first rodeo, and I’m a firm believer in third time’s the charm, so of course when I handed the man a bag with his breakfast in it and our hands brushed, I got flutters and butterflies and a heaping spoon of regret that I would probably never meet the man again.

He handed me a hundred-dollar bill and left. Le sigh. My one true love, whatever his name was…

At least I got paid for my hour. No, I didn't charge him for his meal. I kept that money all for myself—worker’s comp or something, amiright?

Which brings me to today and my job search.

Filling out online applications in this job market is kind of awful.

Since I can’t talk, don’t have any kind of work history, and I have no higher education, I’m pretty limited on the kinds of jobs I can do.

Busboy at the diner was pretty much the best I could get.

Speaking of the diner. Turns out the owner decided to close it down permanently. Couldn’t even give me a reference letter since I worked exactly one hour before walking out. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t getting paid to clean up blood and bodies.

Maybe I should look into crime scene clean-up. That’s not the kind of job that would require me to talk, right?

Because I can’t. I don’t have vocal cords.

Yes, yes. I have a tragic backstory that includes an abusive, narcissistic, surgeon stepfather who removed my voice when I was a colicky baby.

Don’t worry, I’m not traumatized by it. I was a baby.

I don’t remember what it was like to be able to scream.

Besides, that jerk was killed by the FBI in the first mass murder I witnessed.

I lived the first decade of my life in a cult before the cult leader, the previously mentioned narcissist, decided to kill everyone and start over.

The only thing that saved me was the fact that I wouldn’t eat or drink anything red, and my stepfather decided to poison us with tomato juice of all things.

He was unhinged if he thought ten-year-old Romily Butcher was going to put tomato juice in my pie hole.

“ A Tramp Abroad by Mark Twain.”

I spin in my chair at Mach 3, turning toward the familiar voice behind me. Oh my god. The man! Right there in front of the librarian, still sporting more weapons than any one person should need. Obviously he needs them, but still.

The librarian looks up at the man and arches a brow before handing the man a note. “Careful, Fox. You’re the second person to ask for that book today.”

The man spins, immediately spotting and completely disregarding me. I mean, I don’t blame him. I’m not all that memorable, but still. My hopeful, little, romantic heart gives a twinge at being so easily forgotten.

Ouch, Future Husband. Ouch.

The man disappears down an aisle and out of my life once more, so I turn back to the computer I’m occupying and take up my task again, this time putting headphones on and listening to a YouTube playlist.

I really need a job.

About four applications later, a streak of blood spatter hits my screen, startling the fuck out of me.

I rip my headphones off and turn in my chair just in time for a dismembered arm to come flying at me.

The thing lands in my lap as my eyes go buggy at the absolute carnage behind me.

It’s not as bad as the diner, but I don’t think the library is going to be able to afford the clean up.

Fighting hand-to-hand with a man at least half a foot taller than him, the love of my life moves whip-quick, battling his opponent for control of a sword.

I’m not one to judge, but it just feels strange that anyone would bring a sword to what is obviously a gun fight.

Not that my future husband is using his guns at the moment—not the ones that go bang, anyway.

Oh, look at my man go. With a couple of on-point hits, the love of my life manages to disarm the taller dude, grab the sword—

Aaand now there’s a head joining the arm in my lap.

Gross.

I push both body parts off my lap and look back up to find my future husband watching me as he catches his breath. I pluck at my blood-soaked shirt and huff. I’m going to have to do laundry now since this was my last clean shirt.

I roll my eyes at the guy and point to my ruined clothes.

He glances down at them, and I raise my fingers, rubbing them together to indicate he owes me money for a new outfit.

He doesn’t, and I let my amused smirk speak for itself.

My teasing earns me a small smile before he stalks over to me and hands me another hundred-dollar bill.

I give him a bright smile and that’s it. He grabs a book off the floor, shakes the blood off it, and leaves.

Damn that man is fine.