Page 34 of Three

“The Ford Explorer with your partial plate was found on the side of a freeway. It was reported stolen. No fingerprints. A bullet from your gun hit the trunk. I retrieved it, so the police won’t be able to link you to the scene.” He pulls the bullet from his jeans pocket and tosses it at me.

I study it under the store’s white lights, holding the nose of the bullet away from me. The number and size of the grooves and lands around the circumference are unequivocally from the barrel of my gun, and the direction of twist is left.

“Nice shot by the way,” he adds.

I ball my fist around the bullet. “How did you?—”

“I have connections.” He says it like it’s the most obvious explanation. “No cameras outside the cemetery, and no other cam caught the car or you,” Ramiel finishes.

I clear my throat. “Mm. Thank you for…this.” It’s awkward as hell. I’m not used to showing gratitude, and I still don’t know what’s his motive, his interest in all this. Does he have an angle? Why is he helping me?

He shrugs like it wasn’t a big deal taking evidence away from a police case.

I’m expecting a question regarding my visit to the cemetery, instead Ramiel switches gears. “You can tell a lot by watching a person’s cart.”

The way his brain works is, again, puzzling. Maybe he’s not interested in my life. Or it’s more plausible that he already knows almost everything.

“Look at that guy,” he keeps going. “He’s unhappily married and one step from dying of a coronary.”

“Like you are?” I point at the products in Ramiel’s cart. Among the pile there are five bags of chips, Coke, coffee beans, smoked sausages, some very stinky cheese, and a big bottle of Tabasco.

“Can’t be helped,” he explains, like he doesn’t have another choice.

I have to ask. “How do you know the guy’s marriage is an unhappy one?”

“He has tampons in his cart, which means married.”

“Could be for a girlfriend or a sister.”

He snorts. “How many guys would do that for a sister or a friend? Wouldn’t a good P.I. know that?”

His crazy talk doesn’t shake my patience, since I’ve had to learn how to keep mine inside my house for the last two years. “The contents of his cart still don’t tell you if he’s unhappy in his relationship,” I insist.

“But the I-want-to-run-away expression on his face does. Plus, I just found him on Facebook.” Ramiel turns his phone my way. I can see the same guy holding hands with a woman. They are wearing matching gold rings.

I grunt. “How about yours? What do your groceries say, apart from the early death bit?"

“You tell me.” He likes to challenge me, dare me, provoke me. He’ll learn soon enough that I never back down.

“Messy. Puerile. Lonely.”

He puckers those damn plump lips again. “You forgot clean.” He raises the two bottles of detergent. “And horny.” The coconut oil.

My cock jerks at the mention of Ramiel’s horniness. “Can’t you buy lube?”

“Not in a supermarket.” He rolls his eyes. “Would you let me stop at a sex shop next? Do you feel a whisper of desire?” He turns his voice into a sultry murmur while mirth fills his eyes.

He’s fucking with me. He’s a rich—probably bored— eccentric genius with a dark hobby. He needs to be creative with how he gets his kicks.

But I do want to see that submissive, dazed expression on Ramiel’s face as he comes undone again.

I make myself stare at him until he breaks eye contact and glances down. My cock turns as hard as steel to see him yield in that small way. It might seem insignificant, but it’s actually the opposite. It means he’d let me have control over him, just like in the alley.

“So, what would your cart have, Grizzly?”

I growl at the nickname even though it doesn’t annoy me that much.

“Come on, humor me.” That mischievous smirk will be the death of me.