Page 9 of Little Blue

“Like—um—dating?” Did Rae put him up to this?

I mean, sure, she teases me about Hank and his sticky eyeballs—but, surely, she wouldn’t…

“Yes, Irelynn. I’m asking if you’re dating someone?”

“Um.” I feel dizzy as another little white lie slips out. “Um—yes.” I add a little more confidently. “Yes, I am.”

His brows lift. He’s surprised. “You are?”

I know, it’s unbelievable.

I dig my hole even deeper. “Yes. He’s—um—it’s new. We’re just seeing where it goes. But, yes, I’m s-seeing someone.”

My lie sounds so choppy to my own ears, even I don’t believe it.

As he leans away from me, grinning like I’ve just presented him with a challenge he likes, I think I should have just told him I don’t date co-workers.

But then maybe he would have solved that little issue by firing me.

I still wouldn’t have gone out with him.

But I would have been out of a really good job.

Life, like luck, sucks.

Four

Ilya

“Her boss asked her out today,” Misha tells me.

My jaw clenches. So does my hand around the phone.

He takes pleasure in playing this game. In pushing me closer to my edge, waiting, watching for that moment I’ll tip over and fall.

I stroke my hand over black fur, the familiar rumble of his purr doing the impossible. It calms me, just a little.

Remarkable.

“Did you put a bullet between his eyes?” I ask dryly, continuing to stroke the cat as I stand next to a bed that isn’t mine. The cat lifts his paws, one after the other, kneading the pilled bedspread as long claws sink into the material.

My eyes drift from the cat to her nightstand. Resting on the water damaged surface is a well-used book she’s clearly checked out from the local library, if the large barcode taped to the front, is any indication. The cover boasts a man with tattoos and an expensive suit. But it’s the promise of a mafia romance that has my grin hitching. I lift the book, flipping to the back.

My brow rises. A forced marriage, Little Blue. Interesting.

And ironic, considering everything I am, and everything I intend to do to her.

“No, I didn’t kill him.” Misha’s laugh rumbles through the phone line. I put the book back.

“Good,” I mutter, turning to award the small black creature with a scratch under his chin. In the last week, I’ve found that he likes these. “I’d have to find a way to revive him so I could kill him again myself.”

The idea of any man asking my woman on a date has something hot, unfamiliar, and persistent twisting violently in my gut. I don’t like it.

I’ve never been a man to deal well with things I don’t like.

“You’re not interested in her answer?” Misha taunts.

I pull my hand from the cat, fisting it. The freshly split skin on my knuckles pulls tight, but I revel in the pain. It is a reminder I remind myself of daily. Only a fool would dare think they are untouchable, incapable of feeling. Of pain.

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