Serial Killer Meet Cute #2
I study him for a moment but at this point I’m not sure there’s much harm telling him. He already knows where I live. “Hazel.”
He waits me out, cocking his head again. “You can ask.”
I puff out a short breath. “Fine. What’s your name?” I regret the question as soon as I ask it.
“Flynn.”
His name is soft. Real. It makes him sound like a Disney hero, not a man who’s murdered over half a dozen people.
I tear my gaze away from him, studying my gran’s old floral wallpaper with an intensity that makes my head hurt. I cannot let myself relate to this man.
My peripheral vison flickers as Flynn sits forward, a frown marring his perfect face. “I did what I went in there to do. That’s why I escaped.”
His words have me looking back at him and as soon as I do, the ghost of a smile appears. His posture relaxes and he leans back against the wall again.
“What did you go in there to do?” I ask, because apparently my curiosity is morbid.
He tsks. “Come now, Hazel. You’re smarter than that.” Disapproval hums in his deep voice and I decidedly ignore how my core warms.
A police siren blares through the open window, a blatant reminder that I’m talking to a serial killer. One who I’m pretty sure just committed yet another murder.
Lights flash in the mirror next to Flynn as the patrol car crawls down the street. I think about screaming. About jumping up and slipping through the open window.
“Don’t,” Flynn says.
“Because you’ll hurt me if I do?”
Water blue eyes meet mine, far too unguarded to belong to a killer. “Because I’m asking you not to.”
My conflicted brain runs out of time. The police car disappears from sight, its siren fading away to a thick silence.
I pick at the edge of the fluffy white rug by my knees.
“Thank you,” Flynn murmurs.
“You’re not welcome.”
He laughs.
Dammit Hazel, don’t make the serial killer laugh.
I run my tongue around my mouth and force a full breath into my lungs. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
“Never partaken in small talk before?”
“Small talk with a murderer? No, can’t say I have.” The words leave my mouth before I can think better of them, and my eyes widen as they hit the air. In my head, Flynn’s hand circles my throat, shadowed eyes glaring down at me.
In reality, his lips twitch in amusement.
Who’d have thought serial killers would be so fucking friendly?
“Fair enough,” Flynn says. “How about I start? Favorite TV show?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Grey’s Anatomy.”
“A tad morbid, no?”
“Says the murderer.”
He laughs again, the tendons in his neck standing in harsh relief as he tips his head back. I’m busy trying to figure out how someone so dangerous can be so beautiful when Flynn quirks a brow. “You know small talk is generally reciprocated.”
I sigh. “What’s your favorite TV show, Flynn?”
“Dexter.”
My fingers stop fiddling with the rug. “Is that your way of telling me you’re really one of the good guys because you only kill bad people?”
Flynn turns somber, all traces of humor vanishing in an instant. “Dexter isn’t a good guy, Hazel.”
I don’t know what to make of that but apparently my body has relaxed enough for my stomach to rumble.
Flynn frowns. “You’re hungry.”
“Yeah, well, a serial killer broke into my house, so I missed dinner.”
“It’s after midnight.”
I shrug and go back to twisting the rug tassels between my thumb and finger. “I can’t always eat when I get home from work,” I admit.
“Why not?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. My job’s stressful. Good but stressful. My gran used to say my brain had too many thoughts to be hungry.” I don’t know why I told him that and I wince as my stomach growls once again.
“You need to eat.”
“Okay,” I drag the word out, not quite sure what he wants me to do with that statement. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a weapon on him but I’m working on the whole don’t move till the guy keeping you hostage in your own bedroom tells you to philosophy.
I’ve talked enough panicked people through sticky situations to know that 99% of the time, doing what you’re told is your best shot at getting out alive. That and not having your music so loud you miss the escaped prisoner alarm but hey, nobody’s perfect.
“Right.” Flynn dusts his hands off on his matching gray pants and leaps up. He opens my bedroom door and steps back, flourishing his hand. “Ladies first.”
In this edition of Murder Monthly: The Gentleman Hitman – kill them with kindness.
I blink at him, my shoulders tense as wariness creeps down my spine. I get up slow, trying to recall whether there were any articles about the Vigilante Choker dabbling in cannibalism. That would make more sense than Flynn actually caring about my wellbeing.
It’s not till I walk down the hall and through the open door to the cottage style kitchen that I realize this could work to my advantage.
The kitchen has knives.
I pad in bare feet over the tiled floor. The space is small, barely fitting the wooden dining table my gran and I used to eat at. My hand is on the filigreed handle of the knife drawer when Flynn’s voice stops me.
“Remember that thing about home-owner’s weapons being used against them?”
I look over my shoulder to find him leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s tall, over six foot, and the muscles in his arms rival Michelangelo’s statues.
I’m tiny. I don’t stand a chance against him.
I guess I could try throwing the knife, but I spent every pee-wee softball game sitting on the bench after that one time they put me on the pitching mound, and I hit an outfielder in the head. Don’t ask me how.
Flynn’s gaze softens. “You’re hungry, Lilac. Make yourself something to eat.”
“My name’s Hazel.”
His lip twitches. “I know.”
My shoulders heave as I breathe in deep and sigh the air out. I don’t know how to deal with this man so I take my life into my own hands and turn my back on him to make myself some damn food. Except my stomach is so twisted up it may as well be a pretzel.
I go on tippy-toes to grab two mugs from the cupboard above the toaster.
It’s not till I turn back around and catch Flynn’s eyes locked on my legs, the muscles in his throat hard, that I remember I’m in my night shirt.
And of course today is the day I happened to wear the skimpiest pair of panties I have because all the rest are in the wash and I hate doing laundry with a venom.
My ears burn and twin fires warm my cheeks.
Flynn’s hands clench into fists by his sides as he drags his gaze back up to my face.
I spin away so I don’t have to look at him and step over to the fridge. The cold air chills my heated face when I open it and I wonder whether I’m small enough to just crawl inside and shut the door.
Breaking News: woman found dead from hyperthermia in her own fridge. Other notable items include a half-eaten cheesecake and two-week-old Chinese take-out.
I snag the gallon of milk and fill up the mugs before placing them in the microwave.
“You need proper food,” Flynn says as I reach into the cupboard for the hot chocolate powder.
I thump the container on the counter before turning to face him.
“No offense, Flynn, but if I eat anything right now, I’m likely to chuck it up all over your feet.
” Feet which, by the way, are completely bare.
Hand on heart I have never before found feet attractive, but there’s something about Flynn walking around bare foot in my kitchen that has heat chasing up my neck.
“Fair enough.” He slides the wooden chair out from under the table and takes a seat. In my kitchen. At my table.
I’ve domesticated a serial killer.
The microwave pings.
I spin around and pop the door open, trying not to burn my fingers as I lift the mugs out.
I have two types of mugs in this house, my gran’s old floral ones and mine, which have slogans on them.
I dump two heaped spoons of hot chocolate powder into the mugs and give Flynn the one which says I’d Kill for a Coffee in pink lettering because, honestly, I’m a sucker for irony.
He blinks at the mug then swipes the side of his hand across his mouth to hide what I’m pretty sure was a smile. “Make hot chocolate for all the guys who climb in your bedroom window do you?”
“Only the ones I want to poison.”
He quirks an unfairly perfect brow.
“I’ve been told my cooking skills leave something to be desired.” I shoot him a dry look and bring my mug up to my lips, blowing on the steaming cocoa.
Flynn keeps his gaze on me as he lifts his own mug and takes a sip. He grimaces.
“It’s not actually poisoned,” I say.
He sets the mug back down. “I know. I just didn’t think it was possible to burn milk.”
I gape at him. “It’s not that bad!” Determined to prove him wrong I drink from my own mug. Bitter, acrid chocolate hits my taste buds and I force the liquid down.
“Well?” Flynn asks.
“Delicious.”
Flynn laughs, the joyous sound rumbling through me. “Oh sweetheart, you’re a bad liar.”
I scowl and open the cupboard next to the sink to grab the half-eaten packet of mini marshmallows. I drop a handful into my mug in the hopes that it will make the cocoa vaguely palatable. I debate offering the bag to Flynn but decide to draw the line at sharing marshmallows.
He takes another sip from his mug and if I wasn’t already sure he was crazy, this would be the indicator because the psychopath continues to drink the vile cocoa like it’s your average cup of joe.
I hold my bag of marshmallows close and frown at him.
“If you’re going to insist on hanging around, can we at least relocate to the living room?
” My best friend, Wright, dragged me to her self-defense class yesterday (oh the irony) and my legs are currently on the outs with gravity.
The adrenaline from work and then from the whole man-climbing-through-my-bedroom-window thing has kept me going but now it’s wearing off, I’m about sixty seconds from collapsing.
Flynn extricates himself from the chair and picks up his chocolate. “Lead the way.”