23
It’s the same café where I spotted Cormac and his father that day after Z and I went grocery shopping using Smiler”s money. Cormac chooses the same table against the wall, and I sit opposite the door, expecting his father to turn up. He won’t, though. That’s just wishful thinking since he’s probably working and making excuses for dropping the assailant to his death last night.
“I come to this shopping complex for…ah, shopping,” I state, realizing how stupid I sound. “Food shopping mostly.”
Those eyebrows are permanently glued low over his blue eyes, even when he’s smiling—not that he smiles much, unlike Blake the Thief. Huh, it’s been a while since Blake the Thief messaged me. He must be too busy ripping people off and selling their wares to message the girl he said he was fiercely attracted to or thereabouts.
Anyway, back to the ever-so-serious Cormac and his ever-so-serious glower. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re happy or sad because your expression is permanently stuck on that,” I point at his scowling face.
“I’m neither,” he replies.
“You never feel happy or sad?” I ask, finding him so intriguing.
He shrugs as his long fingers play with salt and pepper shakers. “I waver in the middle. There are no extremes.”
“Happy and sad emotions are hardly extremes; they’re, you know, normal,” I argue as our breakfast of bacon and eggs, pancakes, hashbrowns, and maple syrup is served.
“That’s just how I am,” he says evenly, shaking salt on his salty meal. “Flatlined.”
“That’s when you’re dead,” I remind him.
He grows distant in response to my comment, and sadness or discontent emerges behind those eyes. I consider apologizing if I offended him in some way, although it’s not clear why. He lifts his eyes, returning to the present, and says, taking a bite of a bacon strip and patting his chest with the other hand, “Still beating. Just. So, I stand corrected. I’m lined but not flat.”
I snort because I enjoy his dark, weird sense of humor, if you call it that. “And you call me nihilistic. Wait. Shouldn’t you be on a special diet?”
He picks up his fork and points at his plate. “This is special.”
“I suppose it’s mostly protein,” I add, sipping orange juice before picking up a fork to cut a fried egg.
“Exactly,” he agrees, furrowing his brow at the muffled sound of his phone beeping. He reaches into his sweatpants pocket, takes his phone out, looks at the screen, and then looks behind him at the cafe entrance.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, watching the window to see if his father will emerge.
“I hope not,” he turns back and replies to the message, then places his phone on the table.
“So,” I start to grab his attention away from that message. “How well down you know Lucy?”
His eyebrows drop low over his eyes. “Lucy?”
“Yeah, who sat at our table at the swim team dinner? The girl with long blond hair who was your friend Josh’s date,” I explain, finding it weird that he doesn’t know who Lucy is.
“Ah, you mean Lu?” he croons. “Yeah, she’s on the team.”
“I know, but how well do you know her?” I ask.
“I don’t know. We’ve had conversations. I see her most days at training, so…” he shoots me a curious look. “Wait. Are you jealous?”
“What? No. You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I try to convince him, but he’s on a different wavelength here.
“Are you worried that Lu and I might, you know….have a thing,” he teases to get me going.
“No,” I snap, annoyed. “If you want to do that. I can’t stop you, can I? Be my guest,” I dare him smugly. “Stop pursuing me and go after Lu.”
He holds his intense gaze for a few seconds while I stare back, showing hostility, making it clear that he doesn’t intimidate me. The challenge is set. The first one to look away is the loser.
“Why would I want Lu when I’d much prefer the killer temptress before me,” he says smoothly.
I flinch at his choice of words but refuse to look away, even for a split second. “Temptress?” I purse my lips, flaring my nostrils, enjoying this battle of wits very much.
“Yeah,” he states confidently and assuredly, combing his fingers through his short, brown hair but still holding his stare. I think ‘killer temptress’ perfectly sums you up. And as I’ve said before, I don’t have much spare time, so I like to use my time wisely.”
Tantalizing quivers travel down my thighs, and I swallow over a lump in my throat. “Do you think you’ve got me in the bag? Done deal. Prize won.”
“Well, you’re here right now, so…” a rare smile worms across his face as he shrugs those impressive shoulders under a snug white T-shirt.
“Because I’m hungry,” I hit back, as my eyelashes have their own mind, fluttering flirtatiously again.
His tongue runs over the inside of his cheek while his eyes twinkle in delight. His short brown hair is still shiny and wet from his shower, and he smells of soap and cologne. “Hungry?” he cocks his eyebrows.
“For food,” I inform him, still holding my gaze and refusing to lose this fight. “Just in case you interpret my answer as something else.”
He rubs his cleanly shaven jaw with his fist, still holding his stare. I refuse to let him win, so instead of looking down for a bacon strip on my plate, I feel with my hand until I find one and bring it to my lips.
“By the way, you’ve got maple syrup all over your hand,” he points out, hoping I’d break my stare.
“I’m fully aware of what’s on my hand because I can feel the stickiness,” I explain, licking my hand and noticing his hungry pupils dilate in desire.
“Stay the night with me,” he states boldly. Nerves strike me hard and roll about nauseatingly, dragging fear out of every cell of my body to dance to my joy. I hate this. I really fucking hate my fear dictating everything.
Without thinking, I drop my eyes because I can’t look at him when talking about something so painful, and I don’t care if I lose the battle. I’m scared of how sex will physically feel, the penetration, and having a heavy weight on top of me, being held down. My chest tightens as those baby blues read my face and disappointment washes over him.
“I just…” I sigh, avoiding his eye and struggling to find the words. “It’s been a while. And that sounded like a demand, not a question.”
“What do you mean, it’s been a while?” those eyebrows set low to accompany that penetrating stare.
“I haven’t done it for a while, and we’re rushing things. We only just met,” I explain. “It was only last week when you scolded me in the swimming pool.”
“How long? How long has it been since…” he waves his hand as there is no need to finish the sentence.
“Two years.”
He balks, screwing his face up, “Two years. That must be by choice. You’re seriously one of the hottest chicks I’ve ever seen. Why-”
His phone vibrates on the wooden table, and I startle, pleased that we have a distraction until I notice the name flashing on the screen. THORN. Cormac snatches the phone and holds it up, reading the message, then turns to look behind him at the front window again. I can’t see anyone of interest, but then I don’t know who he’s looking for.
As I continued to eat, he replied to the message, and once he was done, he put the phone back on the table. “Sorry about that.”
“Slinger?” I tease. “Interesting name.”
“Yeah, well, he’s an interesting guy,” he replies, “and about tonight…we don’t have to do anything. I mean if you stay over. I want to spend the night with the hottest chick I’ve ever met, even if it’s just sleeping and talking.”
I snort, struggling to believe him. “And you can keep your hands to yourself?”
He blows his cheeks out like a blowfish as he deliberates the question. “If I’m going to be honest, I won’t find it easy.”
Dread is a bitch, and my head is about to explode with pros and cons. “Um, I’ll think about it,” I resign as the space between my thighs becomes sodden, thinking about his hands all over me. I do want to have sex with him, but I’m scared that I’ll either freak out or it will hurt so bad that I’ll never want to go near a man ever again.
“I’m sure I can abstain to build trust with you,” he adds, picking up his fork and slicing through his pancakes. “And by the way, I won the stare-out challenge.”
“Huh,” I grunt, “By default.”
One of those rare smiles glides across his face. He’s so beautiful when he smiles, and I wonder why he doesn’t grace the world with his grin more often. “Nah,” he clears his throat and gloats, “I won.”
“Maybe I’ll take Til with me tonight,” I joke, biting the end of a bacon strip and flaring my nostrils. “To make sure you keep your hands to yourself.”
“Til?” he hits back hotly, and that smile disappears faster than a lightning bolt. “Who the fuck is Til?”
“My pet Glock,” I answer and immediately scold myself for being so irresponsible in exposing myself like that. Once I make my first kill, authorities will be looking for someone with a gun that shoots nine-millimeter bullets. Stupid. Unless I hide the body, and then they won’t know how he was killed. But dragging the weight of a man won’t be easy, and lifting him will be even more difficult. Again, I need to seriously think this through, bit by tiny bit, leaving no stone unturned. The idea of luring him out on a boat trip, shooting him, then tossing him overboard is still my best plan. However, there are vast holes in that idea, too.
Let’s not forget that Cormac’s father is in the fucking Torres Island PD. Where did I leave my brain?
“You got a pet Glock called Til?” he’s bemused by it, whereas I thought he’d be shocked or even dismayed since his father is a cop. But, nope, he thinks it’s funny—the mystery with Cormac Bernardi.
“No, I lied. I haven’t got a gun,” I try to convince him out of the lie. “I’m just joking. Forget I said that. I tried to be tough in case you got octopus hands like your swim coach.”
He cringes. “Yeah, I know about Lyons and his roaming hands, as some team girls have mentioned it a few times. That’s why I didn’t like him talking to you earlier at the pool.”
“Protective, huh? Some girls like that,” I flirt, not committing to anything, because I’m unsure if I like protective men. I don’t know what my tastes are anymore. One thing I do know is that I can look after myself with help from Til.
“Some guys think chicks with guns are fucking hot,” he confesses, relaxing back in his seat and running those eyes all over me. I need a whip to beat this man back down to size because his intensity makes me sweat.
“Well, if I meet a girl with a gun, I’ll let you know,” I pout a little before I stuff a forkful of maple syrup pancake into my mouth, not caring about my piggish demeanor.
“Why the name Til?” he keeps pushing the subject, so I have to keep pushing back to convince him I was lying. Or change the subject.
I wave my hand dismissively, “Oh, it was the first name that entered my head as I was stitching together this fairytale that you’re na?ve enough to believe.”
“Sure, Rae,” he says in a doubting tone, leaning forward again and picking up his fork. I think I failed at convincing him.
“Anyway,” I need to change the subject, something shocking so he’ll forget about the Glock called Til altogether. “I saw your coach railing Lucy from behind in a classroom.”
He chokes on his eggs, snorting in laughter. “Sure, Rae,” he says again.
“It’s true. When you saw me yesterday in the courtyard of the sports school, I saw them through a window,” I explained, but judging by his expression, he still didn’t believe me.
“When you were picking weeds?” he asks.
I gasp in exaggerated horror. “I’m sorry, what did you just say? Weeds? I’m highly offended that you call my precious agrimony samples weeds.”
“They look like weeds, and I don’t think they were planted there, so that’s the definition of a weed to me. Anyway, Lu hates Lyons, so that story doesn’t pan out. But it”s a good try. Besides, she’s with Josh.”
“Maybe it was another blond girl, or maybe she wasn’t there by choice,” I argue, trying to make sense of it.
Cormac cringes. “Honestly, Rae, I don’t want to think about what Lyons does in his spare time. I just want to kill it at the Nationals, and then…”
“Then what? You might quit and have a normal life?” catching his hesitation.
“It depends on how well I go at the Nationals. If I’m successful, I’ll go on to the World Champs,” he says flatly. A fatigue or tiredness appears as he talks about his subject, dragging him down a little.
I ask curiously, “And if you’re not successful?”
“Then I’ll find a beautiful blond with a Glock called Til and pursue her until she says yes,” he says confidently.
I can’t help but smile and need to take a minute to compose myself. “And what is the question? What is the question for the blond with a Glock called Til that you require her to say yes to?”
He places his elbows on the table, holds his gaze with that distinct intensity, and states, “Be mine tonight and every night?”