Page 36 of Overdose

He chuckles, low and amused. “Hookers I can live with. It’s the murders that make it a little less cozy.”

That yanks me up short. “Wait, what?”

He tips his head toward the office, voice almost too casual. “Yeah. Couple nights ago, one of my suppliers turned up dead. Throat cut. Whole scene looked like something outta a slasher flick.”

My stomach twists. “That why you’re here?”

He nods once, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he’s got all the time in the goddamn world. “Trying to figure out who did it. People ‘round here’ll talk to me. Not cops.”

“Right. Makes sense,” I murmur, fingers tightening around the vending machine soda like it’s a lifeline.

I shift to step around him, signaling this little reunion’s over. But he falls in step without missing a beat.

“Where you headed?”

I shoot him a look. “Back to my room.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Take me with you.”

I stop short. “Excuse me?”

A slow smirk spreads across his face. “What? Just wanna check it out. Make sure you’re safe. Might be more murderers lurking in the AC unit or something.”

Oh my god. This man.

Don’t panic, Blair. He’s hot as hell. That’s it. Just abs and attitude with a pretty face. Doesn’t mean he wants to fuck you.Doesn’t mean anything. He probably just wants to inspect your water pressure or some bullshit.

Totally normal. Totally fine.

Holy shit.

I cock a hip, raising a brow. “Fine. Let’s go, lover boy.”

His grin widens like he just won something. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

I spin on my heel and start walking, soda clutched in one hand, the other flipping him off over my shoulder. “Don’t stare at my ass.”

“Can’t make promises I don’t plan to keep,” he shoots back, boots crunching the gravel behind me.

The night air buzzes around us, thick and heavy with motel grime and bad decisions. When we reach my door, I swipe the keycard, pretending my heart isn’t jackhammering in my chest.

The lock clicks. I push the door open.

He follows me in without hesitation.

Behind us, the door shuts with a soft thud and then clicks locked.

I crack open the can of Coke, take a sip, and make a beeline for the tiny table by the window. I set it down next to the half-eaten bag of chips, a crumpled burger wrapper, and a lonely fork that’s been haunting the same paper plate for three days.

Classy.

I glance around at the room like I’m seeing it for the first time with someone else’s eyes. Dirty laundry in the corner. Empty takeout containers. A sock on the lamp. Perfect.

I wave a hand at the chaos with a dry smile. “Welcome to paradise. Don’t mind the biohazard-level mess. I was aiming for post-apocalyptic chic.”

But he doesn’t even look at the mess.

He steps toward me like it’s nothing, like the trash doesn’t exist, like all he sees is me. “I’m not here for the room,” he says, voice low and thick. “I’m here to finish what we started.”