Page 3 of Trick Shot

I lean one arm against the bar beside her and tilt my head slightly, eyes skimming her mask, her lips, her eyes, and the tilt of her jaw.

“Didn’t know Playboy Bunnies drank whiskey on the rocks,” I say, voice laced with just enough cocky bite to make it a flirt and a threat at the same time.

She turns her head, just a fraction, enough for me to see the curve of her full lips and her upturned, almond-shaped eyes. Gorgeous.

“Didn’t know Ghostface flirted before the kill,” she fires back, unfazed.

Fuck.

I grin beneath the mask. Not a smirk. A real fucking grin.

“Depends on the victim,” I say. “Some scream prettier when you tease them first.”

She hums, almost like she’s mildly amused.

“Sounds lazy,” she says. “If you have to flirt, maybe you’re not scary enough.”

“Or maybe I go easy on the ones who flirt back.”

She chokes on a laugh. Not a delicate giggle—no, this one’s sharp and real.

Then she eyes me, slowly, like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth her time or just another asshole in a costume.

“I bet you say that to all the girls with trauma.”

“Oh, I only say it to the ones with trauma.” I lean in a little. “They taste better.”

“You’re disgusting.” She turns fully now, her body angled toward mine, that wicked little smirk playing on her lips.

“You say that,” I drawl. “But you’re still standing here.”

She takes another sip of her drink, eyes locked on mine above the rim.

“Must be the mask. Gives me hope you’re not ugly.”

“You wound me, Bunny.” I place a hand over my heart.

“Not yet, Ghost.”

Jesus Christ.

My blood heats instantly, slow and dirty. She’s not just playing along—she’s sparring.

And I’m losing.

“Wanna find out if I scream nicely too?” I ask, watching her lips part just barely.

Her smile doesn’t grow, doesn’t shift. Just stays right there, tight and knowing.

“Careful, Ghost. You’re starting to sound hopeful,” she bites back, and turns back to her drink.

I stand there, stunned silent for the first time in probably… ever.

She thinks she has the upper hand, but I know that look in her eyes. That glassy, glazed-over shine. The slight delay between sip and smirk.

She’s tipsy.

Not enough to stumble, but enough to stop pretending. People drop the act when they’re buzzed. And Bunny? She just dropped hers in my lap like a loaded gun.