Page 31 of Puck
“So he wouldn’t scream and draw attention to us.”
“Oh.”
“Do I scare you?”
She nodded. “Yes, you do. It shouldn’t be so easy to end a life.”
I sighed. “I agree. But that’s where my life has taken me. I don’t do it lightly, and I don’t do it easily. I’m not a serial killer or a sociopath, Colbie. But if someone threatens me or those I’ve sworn to protect, I will not hesitate, and I will not feel guilt. These jackholes are all stone-cold killers, and I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of them.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
“In terms of what? In general, or people I’ve killed?”
She shrugged. “Both, I guess.”
I thought for a moment. “Hmm. In general . . . maybe not making more of the time I had with Raquel. I wish I’d been more open about how I felt, shown her what she meant to me. I was young and stupid and an emotional caveman, thought being manly and macho meant never being . . . like . . . sweet or tender or whatever. I really cared for her, but I was just a . . . a churlish dick all the time. Surly and closed off, kept my emotions shut down.”
Colbie looked at me, surprised. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that answer.”
I tilted my head and shrugged. “Just the truth. She deserved more from me than she got, and then she died, and I’ll never be able to give her that.”
She hesitated a long moment, and then her palm skated down the inside of my thigh to my knee and back up, closer to my groin, this time. “So if you were ever in a real relationship again . . .?”
I knew what she was getting at, what she was asking me. “I’d do things a lot differently. I got no problem being real about what I’m feeling. Maybe it’s being older, realizing life is too damn short to act tough when you don’t gotta be tough.”
“So you can be sweet and tender, is that what you’re saying?” she asked, with a wink and a twinkle in her stormy gray eyes.
I smirked. Slid my palm a little higher, and now my hand was fully under her skirt, up to midthigh, and her skin was silky soft and luscious and warm. “I can be a lot of things that might surprise you, babe.”
“Like what?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise, now would it?”
She snorted. “Cop out.”
“Hey, I’ve surprised you quite a bit since we first met, haven’t I?”
She conceded the point with a tilted nod of her head, her mahogany locks swaying. “I guess you’re right.”
“I can’t give awayallmy surprises right off the bat, can I?”
“Fine, fine,” she said with a laugh. “So, change of subject. Tell me about the virgin.”
I tilted my head back and blew out a sigh. “You’re sure you want to hear about this?”
She nodded. “Yes, I do. I’m curious.”
“And you’ll tell me something about yourself in return?”
She nodded again. “I will. Something revealing and personal of a sexual nature.”
I held out my hand, and she took it in hers, and we shook.
“All right, then. Here it goes. I was thirty-two at the time. Working for the FBI in the forensics department. I was a field operative, one who went to the crime scene and figured out what happened based on the evidence. Kinda like Dexter, except I wasn’t a secret serial killer. No attachments. I’d just finished a particularly gruesome triple homicide case, and I went to a bar to have a few drinks and see if I could find some company for the night. Like I said, the case I’d just helped close had been pretty nasty, and I’d put in a good eighty hours of work the previous week, so I was . . . not really looking for someone chatty, you know? I just wanted to have some fun and spend the weekend catching up on sleep.” I realized, at that moment, that after shaking hands in agreement, neither of us had let go, so we were holding hands, my right in her left, with my other hand under her skirt on her bare thigh, and her other hand on my leg—lots of touching, none of it overtly sexual. Very weird for me. “So . . . two, three drinks in, I still hadn’t scoped anyone. All the girls in the bar were either clearly with someone or in a group. I’ve discovered it’s always more trouble than it’s worth to try and separate one particular chick out of a group. I was losing hope and getting ready to just toss it in and go home. And then I saw her. Young, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, really young. A lot younger than I usually go for, but for sure legal. Pretty, sweet looking, and all alone. She was wearing this dress, not sure what you’d call it, kind of a sundress or something. Cute, flowers on it, midthigh length, with a belt and a cardigan over it. I don’t know why I remember what she was wearing, or why it should be significant, but it just . . . was. Her outfit wasn’t meant for anyone but her, meant to be comfortable and pretty. She was alone, like I said, sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of white wine. Long, shiny blonde hair. Cute—really cute, really pretty . . . and obviously lonely. Now, that shit isnotmy type. If I’m at the bar trying to score a hookup, I go for the obvious types, the easy pickings. The kinda girl you’d clearly expect to be able to pick up at a bar for quick and easy one-night company, okay? Just the facts.”
“And this girl was way outside that type.”
I nodded. “Way,wayoutside it. Probably wasn’t even looking for company on the stool next to her, let alone what I had in mind. I’m still not sure what came over me. I was in a shitty mood, I was exhausted, I was frustrated, and I was horny. I’d been too busy that week for anything but work, so all I really wanted, to be blunt, was to get my rocks off and then sleep for twelve hours. So why did I sit down next to a sad, lonely, cute girl? I don’t docute. Cute is a death sentence. Cute is . . . just no. But there I was. I bought her a glass of wine, and I struck up a conversation and ended up closing the bar with her. Just talking. We didn’t even drink that much, or at least I didn’t. She did, though. So by the time the bar closed, she was blackout drunk and couldn’t even tell me her own name, much less where she lived. So, I—”