22. MADDOX
MADDOX
I f somebody had told me a week ago that Lyra would find out Hunter and I were professional killers and somehow become more relaxed around us afterward, I would’ve laughed in their face.
Yet here we are.
Not only has Lyra accepted it, but she’s sitting across from me at Onyx Height’s best twenty-four-seven diner, like we merely confessed to having weird hobbies.
Hunter looks mildly disturbed by how quickly she adapted, and somewhat offended that she doesn’t seem to hold it against me the way she does with him.
But that’s the price he pays for ditching her at that bar the very first night they met, and I’m sure she’s going to make him sweat it for as long as she possibly can.
It hasn’t gone unnoticed that she hasn’t told him to fuck off recently, so perhaps that’s progress.
Personally, I think she’s handling the news great. A little too great actually. Most women would have needed at least three to five business days to process, but not Lyra. She asked us to sit down and give her a full rundown, not leaving anything out, and that’s exactly what we did.
She sat there for about twenty minutes before asking if we wanted to go for breakfast burritos. And now, four days later, she’s just about as okay with it as we are.
“Pass the salt,” Lyra says as the three of us sit in a corner booth.
I hand it over and she gives me a small smile.
“Thanks.”
Thanks. That’s it? No shaky hands while my skin brushed her. No freaking out. No complete breakdown. She’s just perfectly okay. Completely normal with the fact that a confessed contract killer just passed her the salt.
What the actual fuck is wrong with this girl? This shit isn’t normal.
The fact that she asked Hunter how many people he’s killed over cereal this morning is beside the point. It’s almost as though she’s mildly intrigued by it.
The meeting is scheduled for later today, and after the whole apartment explosion fiasco, attendance is apparently mandatory—or at least a representative from every home needs to be there.
Something about community concerns and public safety, while also wanting to ensure that the new safety policies that are put in place tonight are accepted and heard.
Honestly, I’d rather get shot through a testicle.
As we eat, my gaze drifts out the window and toward the car dealership across the street. Rows of brand-new cars sit beneath the bright red flags waving in the breeze, and I let out a breath. “I’ve been thinking about buying a car.”
Lyra drops her fork, her stare locking onto mine, filled with horror. “What?”
My brows furrow. I was expecting a few different things, but certainly not that. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re gonna sell the bike?” she asks, searching my stare.
“You can’t sell that bike. I haven’t even fucked you on it yet.
Plus, what’s a fuckboy without a bike? Just an ordinary fuckboy, and who wants that?
I mean, shit, Maddox. Have you not seen how hot you are when you’re riding down the street in one of those sexy muscle tees and the wind has it plastered to your chest so tight you can count your abs?
And then that helmet. Goddamn. If you even knew how hot that got me, you’d never sell that bike. Never even consider it.”
I just watch her, my brow arched. “You done?”
She shakes her head. “Not even close.”
I laugh as I meet Hunter’s stare. “You hear that? She wants to fuck me on the bike. What have you got?”
“Ummmm . . . hello?” Lyra cuts in. “This is no time for your little pissing contest. What’s happening with the bike?”
Hunter rolls his eyes, and I laugh as I drop my stare back to Lyra.
“Relax, Savage. I’m not selling the bike,” I explain, nodding out the window toward the dealership.
“I just figured a car could be useful, especially now that I have you. Not to mention, Smooch. The last time I had to get him to the emergency vet, I had to balance his ass over my lap. Wasn’t pretty. ”
Lyra nods, looking as though her brain just went somewhere else. “You’re not wrong,” she muses, looking out at the lot just as I am. “It would certainly be useful for some of those extracurricular activities you boys have.”
Hunter glances down at her, his brows pinched. “The fuck are you talking about?”
She shrugs. “You know, trunk space.”
Hunter snorts into his coffee and Lyra immediately gets to her feet, shoving in what’s left of her late lunch as excitement dances in her eyes. “Come on, let’s go look.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re wandering through the dealership like three people who absolutely shouldn’t be trusted around motor vehicles. The salesman approached us earlier, but upon hearing part of our conversation, he’s now hiding inside.
Smart man.
We hover around a brand-new car. Hunter is inspecting the engine, I’m looking at practicality and overall sex appeal, while Lyra is simply causing trouble.
She stands by the trunk, her arms crossed over her chest and a frown marring that pretty face.
“What is it?” I ask, unsure I want to know the answer.
“I don’t know if this is the right one for you,” she tells me.
“And why’s that?”
She lets out a sigh and then steps right up to the back of the Mustang before opening the trunk and gesturing inside. “It’s good for a woman,” she says before climbing right in and showing me how she fits inside the trunk.
“Jesus Christ,” Hunter mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, already seeing exactly where this is going.
“But?” I ask as another salesman begins to approach.
She moves her arms and legs around, trying to make herself bigger and showing just how cramped it gets.
“It really depends on your target demographic,” she muses.
“Me? It’s cramped but could work. But say you wanted to shove .
. . Hunter, in here. He’d never fit. Not unless you chopped him up into little pieces. ”
The approaching salesman catches her comments before turning on his heel and quickly hurrying away, hiding himself behind a nearby vehicle.
But Lyra isn’t nearly done. She sits up in the trunk, her hand brushing over the carpet.
“And this will never do. Could you imagine the mess it would make? You’d have to clingwrap all of Hunter’s body pieces before you shoved them in here, and even then, that’s no guarantee.
I’d be asking about custom trunk linings.
Maybe they could do it in rubber for easy cleaning. ”
Hunter glances at her through a narrowed stare. “Clingwrap?”
“What?” she says, batting her lashes. “I saw it in one of those serial killer documentaries.”
I grin at her, and get back on track. “What would you recommend?”
Lyra shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not really a car girl, but definitely something with a wider opening. And more depth. Oh, and if you care about customer satisfaction, maybe something with a little more padding. It’s not very comfortable in here.”
Hunter sighs. “You two are the reason the city is having a meeting.”
She shakes her head. “Ahh, correction, that would be you two,” she says before climbing out of the trunk and moving in beside me. “I’m just saying, if somebody was hypothetically evaluating storage capacity, this one ain’t it.”
I look over the car one more time. “What’d you rate it out of ten?”
She considers the car. “If the trunk space wasn’t an issue, a seven.”
“A seven?”
Lyra nods. “Oh yeah, a strong seven.”
Hunter scoffs and manages to look offended. “A seven is generous.”
“It’s absolutely a seven,” she argues.
“It’s barely a five,” he says.
We spend another twenty minutes arguing about vehicles, storage space, fuel economy, and why Hunter insists black is the only acceptable color for a car. I don’t realize how long we’ve been here until I check the time. “Shit. The meeting,” I say. “We’re late.”
Lyra gapes at me. “How could we be late? It doesn’t start until four.”
We all start heading out of the lot and across the road toward Hunter’s Challenger. “Because you spent fifteen minutes demonstrating how efficiently you could shove a woman into a trunk.”
“A woman,” she agrees. “I think I would struggle with a man. I gotta hit the gym.”
Hunter spares her a glance as we reach his car, and Lyra glances back at the lot. “You know, realistically, that black SUV is probably the best option.”
I nod. “Good trunk.”
“Excellent trunk,” Hunter muses as he shifts into gear and takes off.
I sigh. “Not the best sex appeal.”
It only takes a few minutes to drive to city hall, and as we pull up, we find the place overflowing with what looks like half of Onyx Heights.
Everyone is here. Elderly couples. Business owners. Parents. People who suddenly care deeply about local politics because a killer has started decorating the city with corpses.
People are hovering out front protesting with signs that read: Our town is not a hunting ground, and my particular favorite, This killer is killing my sex life .
I feel bad for the guy. But then, maybe I don’t.
I laugh as we climb out of the Challenger and make our way toward the door. People are everywhere, but for the most part, it looks as though they’ve just started going in.
We walk through the protestors, and as Lyra and Hunter make their way through the door, I find myself pausing and glancing toward the colorful signs. “Hey,” I say to Hunter and Lyra. “Save me a seat.”
Hunter glances back. “Huh?”
I point toward one of the signs that’s been discarded on the ground. “I need to do my part for my community.”
He rolls his eyes and turns back, placing a hand at Lyra’s lower back to lead her through the door as I collect the sign that reads: Onyx Heights: voted safest city before your bitch ass showed up .
I hold it high above my head and join the angry mob, waving my sign around as though we were from the 1800s chasing vampires with pitchforks and fire.
I join in with the chanting.
“OUR TOWN IS NOT A HUNTING GROUND.”
“OUR TOWN IS NOT A HUNTING GROUND.”
Fuck, I feel good about myself.