Page 86 of Remy

She’s going to kill me. But not without interrogating me first.

“Problem?” Remy growls.

“I should’ve been at work forty-five minutes ago.”

The car speeds up, the rapid acceleration thrusting me back into my seat.

“I’ll get you there in fifteen.” He weaves in and out of traffic, the psychotic killer doing me yet another favor.

I turn away from him, hating the renewed influx of appreciation.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters under his breath.

I double down, refusing to feel guilty over my lack of verbal recognition… but the remorse festers, eating me from the inside out.

He fought for me. Burned his hand. Threatened to walk away from whatever presumably lucrative position he has.

“I’m going to be asked where I’ve been. Why I’m late…” I talk to distract myself. To curb the urge to apologize. “What should I say?”

He takes a corner too fast, my body turning toward him with the momentum. “It’s your job to figure it out. Lie like your life depends on it because I assure you it does.”

“And if I can’t come up with something believable?”

His eyes meet mine. “Tell them you got lucky. That you spent the night with a guy you met at a bar.”

“I’d never do that.”

“The Ollie I met six months ago would’ve. In fact, she begged for the privilege.”

My cheeks heat, the warmth spreading down my neck. This is why I promised never to rile him again. He retaliates with sexual grenades that seem to detonate between my thighs.

“Keep it simple,” he murmurs. “The less detail you give, the better. And if all else fails—gaslight.”

My stomach sinks.

I’m not a gaslighter. Not a combatant. Well, not with anyone other than him.

“Your colleagues will pay the price if you fail.” He continues dodging in and out of traffic with ease, as if the murder of my friends would be little more than an inconvenience. “Be cruel to be kind, pyro, otherwise that cremator of yours is going to be putting in some overtime.”

I stare at my tangled hands in my lap. “Has anyone ever complimented you on your spectacular pep talks?”

He turns onto the street of the funeral home and pulls to the curb half a block from the parking lot, leaving the engine to idle. “Has anyone done the same with you and your abundant show of appreciation whenever someone saves your life?”

I wince, the guilt renewed.

I sit in silence, gratitude twisting my stomach.

He doesn’t deserve to hear it. I can’t soften to him. Can’t crumble.

Goddamnit.

“I’m grateful,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond. There’s only the slightest squeak of his hands around the steering wheel.

“I know you’re the only reason I’m still alive.” I pick at the quick on my thumb. “How you fought for me in front of your uncle and brother was…” How do I describe it? Surprising? Oddly passionate? Confusing? “Appreciated.”

I look to him, our gazes colliding for the briefest second before his jaw ticks and he turns his stare out the windshield. “You need to get going.”

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