Chapter 8 #3
“You’re not letting me do anything.” I’m pure ice as I stare down at him, my hand steady as I take care not to draw blood.
“I did just fine before you, and I’ll do just fine when we stop doing…
whatever this is. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re not my father, and I don’t need your permission. Got it?”
My knife moves with the bob of his throat as he swallows. “Got it,” he says hoarsely. And then I feel his cock twitch under my ass.
“Seriously?” I forget to modulate my voice and come out sounding a little too like myself. Dropping my pitch again, I say, “That gets you going again?”
“What can I say? I like a woman who takes charge.” Even though his face is almost entirely covered by a mask, I can picture the expression underneath: unrepentant, smirky, adorable.
Adorable? Fuck, I’ve got to get out of here.
I dismount, tuck away my blade, and offer him my hand. He doesn’t move for a long beat, his chest rising and falling as he composes himself. Then he reaches out and lets me help haul him up.
“Besides, you handling this”—he gestures around the dark bedroom—“frees me up to finish an intake I’ve had in the works for a while now.”
“Intake?” I cock my head.
“Ah. Just another lowlife who deserves it,” he says with a casual shrug. “If I do it right, it won’t even make the news.”
That’s not his first reference to hiding his kills behind accidents, and I wonder if I’ve ever processed any of Gomez’s other “intakes” without knowing it.
Intake. Hugo. Shit. He’s probably waiting for my ladies’ night check-in text. But Gomez is here, so Hugo will have to wait.
“Why Navarro, and why now?” That detail’s been niggling at the back of my mind since I scaled the wardrobe. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”
“If I was, you’d never know it.”
His voice is so matter-of-fact that I resist the urge to check my pockets for a tracking device, which is ridiculous. I know my security system. I know my locks. If someone was following me, I’d know it.
“To answer your question,” he says, returning to his playfully cocky growl, “I’ve got a… a friend in law enforcement, and Navarro recently had a run-in with the police.”
True. Stiletto Guy was in the news this week because a county prosecutor—my ex-boyfriend Greg, in fact—filed every possible charge against the woman who attacked him on their date. Navarro wasn’t mentioned by name, but if Gomez has cop friends, he could’ve gotten the name from one of them.
“A friend?” I ask, curious if we run in the same circles.
The warmth disappears from his eyes, and his only answer is a curt, “Yes.”
Apparently we’re not discussing his friends. Ooookay.
Gomez busies himself pulling out a burner phone that looks a lot like mine, frowning when he doesn’t find a signal.
“Do you have service?” he asks.
I move to my backpack and pull out my trusty RF jammer, waving it at him.
“Nobody does.” My brows lift under my mask. “Are you saying you break into houses without disabling the Wi-Fi and phone service?”
His head dips in a nod, and I give a low whistle.
“No fear of cameras or smart speakers or 911 calls, huh?”
It’s a shake of his head this time. “Nah. My intakes are never alive long enough to call 911.”
God, that’s hot.
Gomez winks, and oh hell, I said that out loud.
“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Can I propose our next target?”
“Our?” Why am I swooning?
“Yes,” he says. “Our. How much do you know about Angie Timms?”
“She didn’t do it.”
“Obviously,” he says. “Yet the State filed murder charges against her.”
“Never mind the lack of evidence or her alibi,” I grumble.
Angie Timms. Thirty-two. Golf pro. Survived an ugly divorce from city cop Lester Timms last year.
The split made the news, fueled by nasty allegations of stalking and abuse on his part and infidelity on hers.
When Angie’s new boyfriend was found dead this summer, the investigation immediately focused on her in a way that suggested someone on the inside was working really hard to make her look guilty.
Someone like her cop ex.
“Lester’s on my list, actually,” I say.
“Mine too. Be a shame if a couple of vigilantes joined forces to take him down, don’t you think?” Gomez’s low voice is casual, but his eyes watch me intently. “And conveniently, Officer Timms is leaving for a tropical vacation next month.”
“Ohhh,” I say, my heart rate picking up. “How long will he be out of town, working on his tan?”
“His house will be completely empty for eight glorious days during the last week in October. And conveniently, my Thursday night’s completely empty that week.”
I bite back a smile. We met in Marshall’s closet on a Thursday, and we’re both here on a Thursday, too. Apparently we have the same convenient night free.
“Wanna find out if he’s as guilty as he looks, Morticia? Unless you’re already booked for ladies’ night.”
Hoping I didn’t visibly startle at his joke landing square on my normal Thursday night murder excuse, I make a show of thinking it over.
“The last Thursday in October? As in Halloween night?” I tap my chin. Honestly, I should feel goofier than I do, flirting behind a mask, but with Gomez, it comes naturally. “Yeah, I think I can cancel trick-or-treating with the girls to join you.”
“Okay then. It’s a date,” he says, sounding downright pleased, and now the mask is doing double duty, hiding my identity and my blush. And does Little Miss Ponies-and-Pedestals have a pre-murder date with Gomez in five weeks? I think not.
I shut down my flustered excitement by focusing on the practicalities, starting with cleaning up after myself.
“I need you to leave so I can finish making my plans before Navarro’s back,” I tell him.
But my right shoulder protests when I reach up to climb the wardrobe again.
Apparently, my scramble to the top earlier pulled a little too hard on the skin grafts, and I’m reluctant to test their limits for a second time tonight.
A glance at Gomez finds him entirely focused on me, as if he caught my hesitation and is scanning me like a Terminator to see if I’m injured.
Well, that won’t do. I pop a hip and give him sass. Artificially husky-voiced sass, but sass all the same. “Are you gonna watch, or are you gonna give me a boost?”
This sweet lunatic who kisses me through our masks and gets off on a knife to his throat doesn’t stop to ask questions.
He just cups his hands and lets me use them as a stairstep.
He even turns me so I can grasp the top with my left arm, not my right, which means he’s observant as hell.
Another little fact to squirrel away for later.
I want to tell him my shoulder doesn’t usually give me trouble, and I can go whole days without thinking about the scars until they find some way to say, “Hey, you almost died in a fire and came out forever changed, remember?” But that’s, like, a fiftieth orgasm conversation.
“I can’t leave my ass print in the dust up here,” I explain once I’m taller than him again. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to pounce on Navarro the way I did you.”
“I fucking hope not,” he growls, but there’s a grin underneath it. “Does that mean you’re going to roll around for a while?”
“Yes. And you don’t get to watch. This is weird enough without catering to your weirdly specific French-maid kink.”
“How’d you know?” He winks. He winks, and it fucking works.
Before he leaves, he grabs my ankle one more time.
“Hey. Be careful. Navarro’s a big guy, and he’ll be home soon. If you need me for anyth—”
I shut that shit down right away, pulling free of those strong fingers.
“Gomez. It’s handled. I’ll see you next month.”