Page 19 of Chicago Sin

Then I realize he’s watching me, and I try to school my face. Keep on a blank mask like he wears.

“You okay? I was… rough.”

Oh shit, I’m blushing. I sense the heat crawl up my neck and spread to my ears and cheeks.

He was rough. And it was hot. I never knew I’d like having my hair pulled or my butt slapped, but I did. I’m still needy for more like a glutton. Almost painfully needy.

“I’d buy you flowers, but I’m guessing that’s not your thing.” He gives me the barest hint of a smile, and stupid me, I reward him with one in return.

“Only if you get them here,” I say, which is dumb because I wouldn’t really want a guy to buy flowers from me to give to me. I only said it because I need the money so badly, I’d be offended if he shopped anywhere else.

And why in the hell am I even examining this line of thought? I’m being held captive in my own shop. By a murderer.

It’s not time for roses and romance.

So I poke. “What happened to the fiancée?”

He grimaces, his expression going harder. “Lotta questions, Flowers.”

I arrange the pieces of the puzzle in my mind. “She didn’t wait,” I answer for him.

He straightens the toppled table and rearranges the remaining plants on it.

“I’m sorry.” It slips out before I can bite back my offering of compassion.

He ignores my sympathy, walking past me to fill the mop bucket in my large utility sink. I smell the scent of bleach. Well, at least he cleans up his own mess. He could’ve ordered me to do it.

I twist my hands behind my back. “These hurt.”

“Stop moving.”

“Thanks. Great suggestion. I hadn’t thought of that.”

He cuts a look at me while he dumps a generous helping of bleach in with the water. “You’re tied up because you gave me trouble. Maybe rethink the attitude if you want me to let out the leash.”

“Leash?”

He wheels the mop bucket into the shop. There was a smattering of blood on the floor, but not much, thankfully. He swabs the entire floor.

“Why didn’t you use the gun? Too loud?”

He shakes his head. “Shut up, Flowers.”

“You didn’t want him dead.”

Armando makes a tsking sound as he mops the hall, then wheels past me and dumps the dirty water into the sink. “Keep out of this. You saw nothing. If anyone asks, there was a struggle, but we both left to finish things outside. You locked the place up and left early.”

My stool is a spinning one, and I use my feet to whirl around on it like a kid. “No offense, but that story would not hold up under questioning.”

Armando stalks over to me.

The part of me bold enough to talk back shrivels, especially when I remember this man is a brutal killer.

He stops when he reaches me, indecision flickering in his expression. Maybe he sees the fear on my face. He reaches for me, and I flinch. He slows his touch. Burrows his fingers through my hair at the side of my head then curls them up to tug it tight.

“Listen. Hannah. I’d rather not say the shit I’m supposed to say right now. Not to you.”

My stomach flip flops as I try to decode the meaning of his words. I keep getting caught on the not to you.