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But I would dream of socking Mr. Cain in the stomach as I pass by his hateful ass. Oh, wait, I didn’t dream it. I fucking punched his ass, and he didn’t so much as grunt.
Maybe someone will run him over in the parking lot. Miracles have occurred in this town, but apparently not for me since as soon as I’m out of the drafty interrogation room, I’m jerked to a stop. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, will this day never end?”
Van Gogh or Cain—I’m going to call him fucking Bob just to be annoying—doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps in front of me like the true asshole he is and pulls me behind him.
“If you wanted to kill me, I could think of a million other places with fewer witnesses.” I make a tsking noise as he leads us out of the precinct and down a back alley. “You’re losing your criminal touch, lover. I could give you a few pointers, but it’ll cost you.”
And the angels of heaven gasped in wonder as the demon himself chuckles. “I’m not the one who just spent hours in an interrogation room after fleeing the scene of a crime. Perhaps you should lay off the Hot Cheetos and crime shows. Maybe then you won’t get caught setting your boyfriend on fire next time.”
This asshole. If I had something sharp, I would stab him right in thigh.
“We all know who caused that fire.”
He tsks me like I’m a child. “We do, and I’m ashamed of your technique. You were taught better.”
This is why he hides in the shadows. Everyone wants to kill him for being a giant pain in the ass.
“Well, we can’t all be lonely psychos who stalk their marks for years. Sometimes, we have to balance our days with a little thing called a job.”
He snorts, and it’s so not sexy.
Fine. I’m lying. It’s very sexy.
“You call what you do a job?” His head turns enough to catch me flipping him off.
“I make an honest living. It’s more than I can say for you.”
“Grading papers for the rich pricks of Havemeyer isn’t an honest living. Not when you’re stealing their personal information to access their bank accounts and give yourself a generous tip for the effort.”
Well, well. Look who has been doing more than just stalking me.
“I don’t keep the money,” I explain. “I donate it to the local animal shelter.”
“I don’t care if you choke your precious boyfriend with it—just call it what it is. You’re no more honest than your prick of a jailer.”
I smile at his term. He still refers to people as jailers.
“You were sloppy at the frat house. You deserved for Blake to catch you.”
Alrighty, then. This reunion is over.
I pull to a stop, jerking his hand back. “Don’t act like you fucking know me or that we’re somehow back in South Carolina with that giant stick still shoved up your ass. I’ve moved on with my life, which doesn’t include you.”
The corners of his mouth tip up into a predatory smile. “I’ve missed your naïveté, Flower.”
In one smooth motion, I’m up against his heaving chest, the smell of bergamot and smoke scalding my senses, begging me to draw closer to the familiar.
“I’ve missed it like I’ve missed the wretched stench of cancerous plastic assaulting my delicate senses.”
My head jerks back, but only because he wanted me to see the hate swirling with the golden flecks in his eyes. Hate that’s never been there before.
“Wow.” I breathe out a burst of air. “And here I thought the stench was your sour-ass attitude.”
My lip quivers with the snarky remark. It isn’t the first time someone has hurt my feelings, but it is the first time Van Gogh has.
And that’s… heartbreaking.
“Don’t cry, Flower. Eventually, we all must pay for our sins.”
