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1035 Words
“Sorry. Is that asking too much? It’s just that I’d never get over it if they got hurt because of me. They’re only trying to do their jobs.”
After a moment, he says angrily, “You know who I am. You know what I do. Correct?”
“Yes. I’ve been filled in on the particulars.”
“And you’re lying there with my hand around your neck asking me not to hurt your bodyguards.”
He says it like my sanity is in question.
“I know it’s maybe a little unorthodox.”
“No,” he says flatly.
“Please?”
He growls, “What the f**k is wrong with you?”
“There’s no need to get testy.”
“Testy?”
“I’m just saying. You don’t have to get all mad about it.”
Furious again, he glares at me, grinding his jaw and probably calculating how much pressure it will take to snap the brittle bird bones in my neck.
Before he does, I say, “I also want to thank you for the rose you left me. That was really nice. I’ve never had a man bring me flowers before. I know it was only the one, and also you thought I was a captive prostitute at the time, but still. It was thoughtful. So thank you.”
He stares at me with an expression somewhere between confusion and amazement, with a healthy dose of disgust on the side.
“Now is probably a good time to remind you that I’m still the same person you left the rose for. So if you did kill me, you’d be killing her, too. Just a thought.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“Not at the moment, no. Why, do you have any?”
“There’s something wrong with you. Mentally. Right?”
That makes me laugh. “Oh, totally. I’ve got more than a few screws loose. At least that’s what my dad tells me. But he’s super uptight, zero imagination, so his opinion doesn’t really count. Not that he’s wrong, because he isn’t, but normies shouldn’t judge creatives. They just have no idea how we’re wired. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’ve never had a conversation with an insane person before.”
“Very funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
“Ouch.”
We stare at each other in silence. His hostile, mine hopeful.
He still hasn’t murdered me, so things are looking up.
“Malek?”
“What.” He says it flatly. With dread.
“Thank you for not killing me.”
He says emphatically, “Don’t thank me yet.”
“You’re still deciding?”
“If only to get you to shut up, yes.”
“In that case…” I make a zipper motion across my lips.
He watches with outrage, astonishment, and absolute disbelief.
“Actually, before I shut up, I also want to say that it was really sweet that you tried to save me from being a s*x worker. I mean, what a gentleman! A gentleman killer who gives strangers big wads of cash in restrooms. You’re quite the puzzle, Mr. Ghost. Or is it just Ghost? I’m never sure how the nickname thing works, except between me and my sister, but that doesn’t count because my whole family is a little weird. I’ll just call you Malek, if that’s all right. Or Mal for short, since we’re such buds now, what with you breaking into my various bedrooms for midnight visits and all. Okay, I’m shutting up now. Here I go.”
I press my lips together and gaze up at him, watching him struggle with dueling urges to cut off my air supply or break something over my head.
Maybe he’s right about me being insane, because rather than terrifying, I find his indecision understandable.
He’s not the first man I’ve driven to the brink of murder. He’s just the most capable of actually going through with it.
“Oh, one more thing—”
“I know a way to keep that mouth quiet,” he snaps.
Then he kisses me.
17
Mal
S
he sucks in a shocked breath through her nose. Her entire body stiffens. She’s frozen for a split second.
Until the freeze thaws, and the claws come out.
She bites my lip.
Hard.
Cursing, I jerk away. She glares up at me, pushing against my chest with all her might, trying to shove me off.
I don’t budge. Instead, I clamp a hand around her jaw and kiss her again.
She writhes beneath me, making angry sounds, fighting. Not giving in or opening her mouth.
I’m surprised at the resistance. She doesn’t look strong enough to stand upright in a brisk breeze.
I’m even more surprised when she yanks at my hair, scratching my scalp with her nails.
I pull away, chuckling. “My little bird has claws.”
“Call me a bird one more time, and I’ll—”
“What?” I demand, pressing my chest to hers so I feel her heart pounding right through my shirt. “You’ll do what? Shoot me? Stab me? Drown me in a sea of words?”
“f**k you.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“You wish, you arrogant prick!”
She’s so mad, she’s almost spitting.
I like this side of her. This feisty, angry side.
It’s so rare that someone challenges me.
“Careful,” I whisper, brushing my lips against hers. “Combat makes my d**k hard.”
She stops fighting me instantly. But not a single ounce of her anger fades. She lies beneath me, breathing raggedly, glaring murder into my face. Her lips are pressed together so tightly, they’re white.
It’s disarmingly cute. Like a furious kitten, all puffy tail and tiny hisses.
No—we’re enemies. I can’t let myself get distracted.
I’m already distracted. f**k.
So improvise. You’re good at that. Kill two birds with one stone.
Gazing deep into her eyes so she can see I’m serious, I say, “Open your mouth for me, or I’ll shoot both your bodyguards.”
- Writer
