Page 11 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

Okay. So I kissed Edgar. Like a sane person. After watching him dispose of bodies for me in his industrial-grade murder oven.

My headlights slice through the dark just in time to catch the sign for Cookie’s Place. Christ. So original. Sounds like a hellhole where old women go to flatline slowly over doilies and stale lemon bars.

The way she said Edgar’s name, then picked up her phone and started the gossip chain like a damn town crier in orthopedic shoes? I swear half this zip code thinks I give out blowjobs with icing on the side.

Bitch. I doubt Cookie’s out here tonguing down morticians after disposing of her exes in tripled-up tarp bags. But sure, I’m the problem.

In my defense, there was a very good dinner involved. And Edgar is so fucking sexy it should be a crime. Honestly, it might be. He’s got serial killer posture and grief counselor eyes. I’m breaking my own damn rules.

He all but said, bring me another body and I’ll make you a soufflé. That’s not a red flag. That’s a six-course promise. I’m already wondering what he’ll cook next and if I can keep my mouth off him long enough to finish it.

Spoiler: I don’t want to. That’s how it starts, right? Dinner. Desire. Then you’re picking out joint burial plots like it’s romantic. Hell, I’ll kill Derik just for an excuse to see Edgar again. That’s... probably a problem. Emotionally. Legally. Morally. Eh.

I’m not a murderer. I’m an asshole exterminator. There’s a difference. Even if that line’s been getting blurrier every time some man talks over me like I’m a barista with no brain cells and great tits.

Jesus. And then there’s Blake.

A breakfast date at my request, just so I can ogle his ass like it’s the daily special.

I could sketch his back dimples blindfolded, from memory, while speaking in tongues.

And that promising bulge? Burned into my cortex like a branded warning label.

He smiled at me like he’d taste every inch of me if I so much as breathed yes.

I’ve never felt like this. Not about one man. Let alone two.

Maybe three, if I count Officer Doesn’t Eat Cookies and the way his deadpan paperwork made my nipples hard. God, I’m broken.

I turn the wheel with a flick of my wrist, headlights catching the glint of a trash can and an opossum that gives zero fucks about my existential crisis.

There’s a car behind me. A few blocks back.

Cop. I recognize the silhouette.

Fuck.

How long has he been trailing me? Does it matter? I’m not speeding. I’m not weaving. The back’s empty. The bodies are gone. Burned to anonymous ash.

The night air claws in through the window crack, cool and damp with that faint metallic reek of rot still clinging to the upholstery.

Edgar took the tarps, but the SUV still smells like I hosted a backyard barbecue for the damned.

Febreze is not going to cut it. That’s like trying to baptize a demon with a wet wipe.

I adjust my rearview. Try not to look guilty. Try not to think about the fact that I am guilty. Just… not for anything you can prove.

Yet.

The car follows me. Not tailgating, just… lingering. Creeping along behind me like an unpaid intern with a notebook and no self-respect.

I clock it turning onto my street just as I swing into my driveway. Cute. It parks a few houses down, half-tucked in the shadow of a dying oak like that’s subtle.

Am I being hardcore surveilled for dumbass Greg? He’s not even worth the calories I burned driving his corpse. This is such a waste of municipal funding.

Okay, Carson. You sexy narc bastard. Let’s see where we stand.

I act like I don’t notice him, just a totally normal woman whose backseat hasn’t recently doubled as a mobile morgue. I go inside and start assembling a picnic like it’s Operation: Peg a Cop with Pepperoni.

He said he liked savory. Well then. The ultimate midnight savory snack?

Pizza. I pop one in the oven, extra meat, stuffed crust, criminal intent.

Twenty minutes later I’m showered, changed, and smell like Victoria’s Secret’s idea of please don’t arrest me.

I’m slicing the pizza into perfect little seduction triangles, the kind of slices that say I might be guilty as shit but can feed you real good.

Two sodas go in the basket, Cherry Coke, obviously.

Also two Zebra Cakes, because maybe he doesn’t like sweets, but I sure as shit do.

This isn’t just bribery. This is foreplay.

And nothing says don’t arrest me, Daddy like warm pizza and dessert cakes nestled beside a girl who smells like sin and probable cause.

I step outside with a woven basket on my arm like the world’s horniest Red Riding Hood, fully prepared to wreck Officer Carson’s life with cheese, carbs, and inappropriate eye contact.

I stroll. Slowly. Casually. Like I’m not crossing state lines of decency just by existing. I stop when I’m directly across from his car.

He looks away.

Oh please. I can feel your surveillance, Carson. That window tint isn’t fooling anyone. I cross the street and tap on his window with one nail.

“Miss Lane,” he says, like he’s trying to shove me back into a box I’ve already exploded out of.

“Jennifer,” I correct, all smile and sin. “You’ve been parked here long enough. Figured you might be hungry. Or nosy. Or both.”

He freezes like a raccoon caught mid-heist. “Excuse me?”

“Spying on me must be exhausting,” I purr. “And we need to talk.”

“Get in,” he says. It’s halfway between an order and a plea, like he hasn’t decided whether to cuff me or kiss me.

My thighs twitch. Dangerous men with guilty eyes are a kink I didn’t realize I had. I circle the car, slow like a woman who’s definitely not armed but knows how to ruin a man’s life. I slip into the passenger seat and plop the basket down between us like a chaperone.

“I’ve never been in a police car,” I say, eyeing the dashboard. “Thought there’d be more blood. Or at least a donut.”

“Most people haven’t,” he replies.

“The pizza’s still hot.” I pop open a Cherry Coke, sip, and sigh like a woman in a bath, not a stakeout. “I already ate. With Edgar. I assume you followed me?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just grabs a slice like this is some kind of stakeout date. “You ate. At the funeral home?”

I should not be noticing how good his mouth looks when he chews. But I’m noticing. Hard.

“Sure,” I say, biting back a grin. “It was a whole date-like thing. Real candles. Corpse-adjacent.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just stares at the steering wheel like it wronged him. Good. I want him off balance. I need to know what he knows other than how to seduce unintentionally.

“Edgar is…” he starts.

“A charming man,” I finish for him. “Didn’t accuse me of murder. Isn’t staking out my cul-de-sac like he thinks I chopped up Greg for being a chromosome short of a decent human.”

I lean back, watching him squirm. Just a little. He deserves it. But something tightens in my chest anyway. Stupid heart. Wrong organ to be involved. Though as my nipples chime in, I think my organs might agree on their feelings about Mr. Wears His Uniform Like a Stripper Costume.

“It’s not serious yet,” I add, faux casual. “I’ve got a relationship to murder and I’m considering if I can get away with another. Really gorgeous. Handyman type. Strong arms. Puppy dog eyes. Type who’d move bodies for you without batting a pretty eyelash.”

His brow twitches. He licks pizza grease off his thumb. I nearly come apart. Is this a new interrogation technique?

I’m the one asking questions. “So what is it, Officer? Curiosity or craving? Because either way, you’ve been watching me like I’m evidence with an ass.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Or maybe just a particularly scandalous third nipple. He shifts like the seat’s suddenly full of thumbtacks. “I’m not here to harass you,” he says. “I just…”

“Wanted to check on me?” I cut in, voice lower now. “Or make sure I wasn’t dumping another body in a drainage ditch?”

He looks at me. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m a puzzle or a bomb. The look says he might be up for either.

“You looked happy with him,” he says finally.

It’s not an accusation. Not quite. More like a confession he didn’t mean to say out loud. My heart flickers again. Ugh. Gross. I stab it with sarcasm. “Oh?” I raise a brow. “You do surveillance and emotional commentary now?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, eyes fixed on the dashboard like it might rescue him. “It was... a different look for you.”

I smile, sharp but that throws me. He noticed my looks? “Was that before or after you started tailing me?”

His eyes flick away. Not denial. Not confirmation either.

“So… am I under surveillance, or are you just lonely?” I tip my head. “What exactly did you see?”

His throat works. “Enough.”

Shit. “To arrest me?” I ask. “Because I didn’t pack handcuffs. But if you’ve got zip ties and a grudge, I’m flexible.”

His eyes flick to mine. A cop’s poker face, but there’s heat beneath it, banked, dangerous and personal. “You think this is funny?” he asks.

“No,” I say, leaning in just enough to make his pulse jump. “I think you’re dying to touch me and don’t know if you’d be cuffing me to a bed or a holding cell.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Jesus, Jennifer.”

“I don’t need saving,” I add. “But if you’re here to see me… then see me. Don’t hide behind your badge like it makes you safe.”

He breathes out through his nose, sharp, like it hurts. “I am trying to keep you safe.”

That’s so fucking unfair. “For who?” I ask, tilting my head. “From what? The men I kill, or the ones who deserve it?”

“From all of it,” he says. “From what happens if it’s anyone but me watching you.”

His words hit somewhere soft. And for a second, just a sliver, my armor cracks. “I don’t need you to fix me, Officer.” My voice doesn’t shake, but it’s a near thing. “Pick a side, Carson. Partner or obstacle. Because I don’t brake for either.”

Can I do what I need to if he is in the way? Edgar would help.

He exhales like I knocked the air out of him. Then slowly he sets his pizza down and picks up a Zebra Cake. He unwraps it and takes a bite.

I stare. “Is that… a yes?”

“I won’t let you get hurt. Not by the men you date, or the men I work with,” he says through a mouthful of frosting. “These are… good.”

I laugh. Can’t help it. It bursts out sharp and delighted, a release of breath I did know I was holding (because if you hold your breath, you know that shit).

Carson watches me like I’m fire and he’s already been burned.

“I have to go,” he says, licking his thumb again. That thumb again. Rude. “I shouldn’t have followed you so openly. And I can’t be here. Not like this.”

“But you were here,” I say softly.

He nods, slowly. Regret and want curling in the corners of his mouth.

I reach for the basket. “Take the last slice,” I say, handing it to him. “Just in case you want a reason to come back.”

He takes it. Our fingers brush. Static. Sin. Possible felony.

He says nothing, but his eyes say everything.

When he drives off, I stay on the curb, heart thudding, lips parted, watching his taillights disappear into the dark.

Maybe I’ve got another very useful partner. A dream team brewing in the summer sun.

Edgar to burn the bodies.

Carson to scrub the trail.

And Blake, God help me, Blake to bend me over the crime scene tape and make me wonder if multiple orgasms count as a valid alibi.