Page 12 of How May I Please You

The first thing I did was slam her frail, little body behind the bushes running alongside the building. Once we were back there, I felt a little better knowing we were out of view, but I still knew better than to move slowly. The second her body hit the ground, I began punching her in the face. While I’m not the biggest person in the world, I could tell she felt it when my blows landed. Plus, being caught off guard makes everything worse. Her senses were discombobulated the way anybody else’s would be in the same situation.

I hit her over and over again, causing her face to quickly swell. Oh my god, I wish you could've seen it, Sir. Her head was like a red balloon with two tiny black dots for eyes. It was hilarious and I hated that I couldn't take my time and laugh at her. Cars were driving by and I had to get out of there to make sure this wouldn't come back to you. Once she was subdued, I wrapped my hands around her throat and started to squeeze with all of my might.

“I don't have time, so I’ll be brief,” I said to her while she gasped for air like a fish out of water, clawing at my arms. “You will not work at Lane Contracting in Pennsylvania again. You started today and you will quit tomorrow. If you don't, I will come back and slit your throat from ear to ear, and while your mouth frowns from the pain, your neck will smile while you bleed out. When you speak to Trey, you will not mention what’s happening to you now, and you will not mention Evan. You will not think of Evan. You won't even dream of Evan when you move back to fucking Delaware. If I find out otherwise, it’s all over for you, and after you're gone I’ll find members of your family and make their necks gush red just out of spite. Now, you look like you're turning blue and might pass out in another second or two, so nod that you understand before I accidentally send you to the morgue.”

She nodded, and out of the kindness of my heart, I let her go and returned to my car without looking back. You see, Sir, I know that you and I are in a happy place and don't need to kill anybody, so I chose to let her go. Even though I can’t tell you about this, I think you would've been proud. Now you don't have a new person slowing down production at your job, and I don't have some redheaded whore bopping around in front of my Sir, smiling hard and batting her fucking eyelashes. I killed two birds with one stone without even having to actually murder her. Yay me. You don't have to worry about a thing, Sir. It’s taken care of. She won't be back.

As I enter the precinct, I do the thing I’ve always done so well—push my devilish thoughts to the back of my mind. There is no place for them here, and the last thing I need is my new partner, Detective Martin Summers, thinking I have something to hide. I went through enough of that with Sam Winter—may he rest in piss.

“Good morning, Detective Monroe,” Martin says as I approach my desk and sit down.

You have no idea, Sir, how much I wish I didn't have to have a partner at all. It kills me to have this guy smiling at me at the start of every morning.

“Morning, Martin,” I reply. “How many times do I have to tell you to just call me Journey?”

“And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Marty?” he quips, his mouth holding his usual smile that I would waste a wish from a genie to get rid of.

Marty Summers is a little shorter than you, Sir, at about six-foot. He’s not completely hideous, but in the rare moments that he’s not smiling, he has the look of a man whose tank of patience emptied years ago. His hazel eyes are the kind that linger, as if everything he’s looking at has a hidden meaning that he must decipher in the moment. He has a long face that I’m sure you’d make fun of, with an angular jaw that’s always wearing a five o’clock shadow. Honestly, his presence isn’t completely unbearable, but the only man I ever want to talk to is you, so I have days where I struggle to hide the fact that I don't want him around. I think he notices it sometimes, but to my dismay, he handles it with grace.

“What’s the matter, Journey, you look like you're having a rough morning,” he says.

I boot up my computer and get ready to click through emails that contain a lot of words but don't say anything.

“Do I?” I ask him, hoping my surprise from this morning isn’t showing on my face.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Well, if I do, it probably has something to do with home and is nothing for you to worry about.”

Summers puts his hands in the air and rolls his chair back. “Oh, shit. Don't shoot me, Detective. I was just wondering how your morning was going. My mistake. Don't ask about anything that occurs before work—note taken.”

I frown before plastering a disarming smirk on my face. “I’m sorry. I don't mean to be snippy. It doesn't bother me to talk about personal stuff. It’s just that you and I are still getting to know each other.”

Summers nods. “I understand. How long were you and your last partner together before you felt comfortable with him?”

I freeze, because questions about Sam always hit me like a gunshot to the gut. I know we got away with it, and it’s totally different when we talk about it amongst ourselves, but when someone else does it out of the blue, panic strikes like a snake bite. It takes focus to keep myself together.

I look over my shoulder at Summers and reply, “Sam and I weren’t partners for very long before … yeah.”

I almost want to applaud myself for making it seem like I really care about what happened to my dead partner.

“Oh. I apologize. I didn't mean to upset you,” Summers says with genuine guilt in his throat.

“It’s fine. I just don't like talking about it,” I reply.

“I totally understand. Even though you didn't know him long, I can only imagine how hard it must’ve been to go through that. Especially being the one that found him. Fuck. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you. I mean, we are partners after all.”

I nod, swallowing a fake lump in my throat as if I could actually cry over that fucking asshole that was secretly in love with me—that piece of shit who went and got a warrant to search your property and caught us as we were moving Sierra Cross’s body out of your backyard. You had to strangle that prick to death just to get him off of me. I will never feel anything but hatred for that man, but that isn’t anything fucking Marty Summers needs to know.

“Yeah, thanks,” I reply before shifting my eyes to my computer. If there is one thing I will not be talking about to anyone, it’s Sam’s unfortunate suicide. “Anyway, Marty, what do you say we get to work?”

Summers, picking up on the clue I’m putting down, nods while pressing his lips together.

“Okay, Journey,” he says, and we get our day started.

chapter

ten

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