Page 20 of Keep Me

Roan rests his head back against his seat with eyes closed. I look at him and try to see what the cashier saw. It’s easy to see all the ways he’s beautiful. Strong-cut jaw, long dark lashes, even down to the small dusting of freckles across his cheeks. Add in the tattoos, and he truly is objectively breathtaking, if not a bit terrifying. I can’t stop myself from snarking. “So, what now, babe?”

His head remains reclined, but he looks at me from the corner of his eye, the hint of a smirk tugging on his lips. “I wasn’t very well going to yell your name in there.”

He has a point, but it’s small. “If you’re going to be calling anyone babe, it should be her.” I flick my head toward the store. “Will I be invited to the wedding?”

I regret the words instantly. He rolls his head to look at me straight on and slowly wets his bottom lip with the very tip of his tongue. “Jealous, darling?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” I huff, but internally I am burning with embarrassment, like a goddamn school girl caught doodling her crush’s initials. When I look away from him, my eyes catch again on his tattoo. Desperate to change the subject, I ask, “What’s with the rosary? You don’t strike me as the praying type.”

He’s looking back out the window, snapping a picture of a mom and toddler walking into the store. “I’m not.”

“Okay, so why?”

His chin slowly twists toward me, and there’s a simmering heat in his eyes. A heat that I feel settling deep in my stomach. He speaks in the same deadpan tone he answered in before, but there’s nothing dry or emotionless about the way he pins me with his stormy stare and says, “Because when my hands are wrapped around your throat, I’m the one you’ll be praying to.”

…Lord have mercy…

“What part of time-sensitive does this joker not understand?” We’ve been sitting in the car outside of the store for the better part of an hour, and I’m ready to bash my head into the dashboard. Roan has been meticulously taking photos and notes on every person who comes and goes, but no one has come for the cooler so far. “You think he knows it’s a setup?”

Roan answers without looking my way. “Maybe.”

“So, maybe we are just wasting time sitting here all fucking day?” I groan.

“That’s all I’ve been doing for the past week. You’ve been here for”—he checks his watch—“forty-nine minutes.” He lifts a brow and adds flatly, “Boo-fucking-hoo.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.” I fold my arms across my chest and sink lower into the seat, kicking my feet up on the dash.

“Good, ’cause you don’t have it.” He knocks my legs down.

“Hey, no touching!” I shout, sitting upright, my heart racing.

He scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly. That was our deal, not a single finger without my permission.”

He spins a silver ring on his thumb. “And what do I get out of this deal?”

I smile sweetly. “I won't kill you in your sleep.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head and sliding his hooded eyes up and down my body. “Violence looks good on you.”

It’s an insult, but there’s something about the way his low, husky voice rolls out the sentence and a glint in his eyes that says I’m famished that makes it feel like the highest praise.

I fight the urge to squirm in my seat, but it’s pointless because the very next second I’m nearly shooting out of it. Across the street, a man exits the store with one big, white styrofoam cooler in his hands.

“It’s him!” I clap my hand on the dashboard, excitement and thrill consuming me. Roan coolly takes a photo of the man and then starts the car. “Ah qué bueno.”

I watch, eyes peeled, as the middle-aged man opens the back door of a windowless navy van and slides the cooler inside. “Perfect car for a serial killer.”

“Eh.” Roan shrugs. “If you chop someone into small enough pieces, you can transfer a body in really any vehicle,” he muses, so casually, as if debating whether hot dogs or hamburgers are best.

“Well, I will be locking my door tonight,” I add sardonically, still keeping my eyes on the man who is now doing something on his phone before closing the van door.

Roan scoffs a dry but amused laugh that makes the back of my neck tickle. “You and I both know a locked door wouldn’t keep me out.”

Something about that prospect sends a shiver down my spine, and it’s not all fear.

“He’s leaving!” I shout and point out the window, trying to shake the image of Roan sneaking into my dark room at night…

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