Page 32 of Remy

The van is gone. The overhead door, closed.

“Come over here,” he demands.

I shake my head and look away, the scent of urine and vomit permeating my lungs. “No.”

“Ollie, do you really want to do this the hard way? Where I force you to comply?” He grabs the guy’s shoulders, hauling his lifeless upper half off the ground. “Given how much I enjoyed your body against mine all those months ago, I don’t think that’s the way you want to play this.”

I scowl at the wall, hatred consuming me.

“Or maybe it is a preference.” He drags the guy closer to the gurney. “Do you want a repeat of that night at the bar?”

Bastard.

I cross the room, nauseous, murderous.

“Grab his feet,” he instructs but I barely hear the words. I’m stuck staring at the face of a man slightly older than my father, his skin a warm brown, his black hair curtaining his forehead. His head hangs limp to the side, his jaw slack, his eyes wide.

“Come on, Ollie. I want him gone before sunrise.”

I do the math, assessing the deceased, guesstimating his weight. It will take roughly two hours to cremate him. At least it would if he were in a casket.

I’m not familiar with a man-only incineration equation.

“Olivia,” Remy barks. “Snap out of it.”

“You don’t need me for this.” I meet his eyes, all that earthy darkness staring back at me. “If you lower the gurney you can roll him on yourself.”

“Yes. But if you participate, you’ll be far less inclined to run to the cops.”

Fucking bastard.

“Feet. Now.” He keeps dragging the man across the floor.

I follow slowly, waiting for him to pause before I grab the dead man’s ankles and help carry him to the raised platform, my actions feeling out-of-body.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Remy smirks at me, and I hate knowing that I would’ve swooned over the expression had it been given under different circumstances. He guides the gurney across the room, pushing against the doors, then briefly pauses to make sure I follow.

Once we reach the cremation room, he aligns the gurney beside the retort conveyor, shoves the body onto the movable metal slab, then presses the button to send it into the cremation cavity.

When the metal slab is fully extended, Remy leans in to hold the man’s feet, then retracts the conveyor, leaving the body to flop unceremoniously to the retort floor.

It’s wrong. So incredibly wrong, and disrespectful, and morally corrupt… but he does all the right things. Knows how to work the equipment. Has evidently been taught the drill.

He just skipped the casket and consensual disposal part.

“Come here.” He pushes the gurney aside and beckons me forward with a jerk of his chin.

My legs work without my permission.

I stare at the man inside the retort, bent and crumpled, the gentle flames flickering from the walls inside.

“I want you to do the honors,” Remy murmurs.

My gaze snaps to his. “No.” I lunge back.

He grabs my wrist, holding me tight. “I apologize if I made that sound like you had a choice.”

His eyes are stunning. Why are they so stunning?

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