Series: Penny Dee
Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Soph,” I say to her. She nods and looks back to the club.
“Do you know him?” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I mean, do you think we will still have a job? I kind of need the money desperately.” I can feel Nessa watching me and waiting for an answer to Soph’s question.
“I do not know him, but he is a client of mine,” I tell her and pull back. “We should go, before they all come out. I can drop you off at home, but then I have to go back to work.”
“To clean up the mess?” Nessa asks. I don’t deny or confirm in front of Soph. The fewer people who know about my job, the better.
Soph seems to miss it, however, as she says at the same time, “I can take you to mine until Leo finishes work. What time do you have the sitter until?” Soph asks Nessa.
Nessa grows uncomfortable, most likely because she doesn’t want to put anyone out or have a fuss made over her. “I can come to your work,” Nessa says to me, and I try to soften my expression.
“No, you know I work in silence. And my workplace is boring. Most importantly, you hate it there.” Nessa looks at me, and I instantly feel bad. She’s shaken, and I understand that. But going to a morgue seems to put only me in good spirits. “I’ll come collect you when I’m done. Go and rest.” She nods slowly but lets Soph lead her to her car. I stay where I am until they drive off. Once I can no longer see their headlights, I turn to go to my car and freeze. There he is. Leaning against my car, as if he has a right to. Arms crossed and watching me with those fucking intense blue eyes that look almost black in the dark.
“Yes?” I say, walking over to him. His eyes drag me up and down.
“Do you own a different color in your wardrobe?” he asks me.
“Yes, now move.”
“You always wear black jeans, why?” I huff out a breath of annoyance.
“They’re comfortable,” I tell him, and open the back door to throw my purse in. When I close it, he has moved and now stands directly behind me. “Why do you wear only black?” I throw at him.
“Because I look good in it.” His mouth twitches at his words as he stares down at me. He does look good in it, asshole. “Graves.”
“Hmm,” I answer, still looking at him. Neither one of us is avoiding eye contact.
“Who taught you to shoot?”
My stomach sinks. There it is. The actual question. My frosty wall is immediately up because I can’t let anyone get too close to the truth. However, I remind myself that it’s not that uncommon for people to know how to handle a gun. And sometimes answering honestly is the best way to throw off a scent.
“My teacher,” I say nonchalantly.
“Teacher?”
“Yes, my high school teacher,” I say, smiling. She was fierce, and while at first she hated me, I like to say I grew on her. She hated that I was alone, and one day after school, when I was walking home, she pulled up next to me and told me to get in. I hesitated at first, but despite knowing about getting in cars with strangers, and despite her only being my teacher, she wasn’t really a stranger, so I did it anyway. One of the best things I did was become comfortable having guns in my home and workplace because I know how to use them. I even have one in my purse right now, in my car. I should probably have it on me, considering who stands in front of me.
Though I imagine it’s a surprise to anyone who’s seen that side of me. It’s not the ability to aim a gun that’s the problem. I know how that different version of me feels and looks. She’s dangerous, uncontrolled, and has secrets.
“Who taught you?” I ask him quickly, not liking the attention on me.
“My uncle,” he says a little bit quieter than I expect. A cold tension runs between us, and I grow uncomfortable.
“Must be nice.” I force a smile, looking back at my car, ready to leave.
“What?”
“To have a family that gives a shit,” I throw out. Because I know in these kinds of families, it’s survival of the fittest. If someone isn’t teaching you how to use a gun by the time you’re walking, then you’re already behind.
“Yes, you have no one. How is that again?” he asks, and I try not to visibly flinch at his words.
“Something to do with death,” I say. He takes a step closer, and I hate how he presses so tightly into my space, forcing me to take a step back and hit my back against my car.