Page 69 of Mayhem and Minnie

“I don’t have the interest, nor the inclination for it.”

She tilts her head to the side and studies me. She crosses her arms over her chest as if to tell me she means business.

“And what type of inclination would that be?”

“I’m not the sentimental type.”

It is what it is and I don’t plan to make any excuses for it. I prefer to live in solitude and secrecy, although that will prove to be harder now with her around me.

I scowl as I once more ask myself why I’m allowing this little stranger to invade my life thusly.

“Have you ever been in a relationship?” she counters with another question.

“Minnie. For fuck’s sake, what’s with all these questions?” I ask angrily.

“You’re swearing again.” She shakes her head at me. “You asked me private questions. I think it’s only fair I ask you the same.”

“What, next you’re going to ask me how many women I’ve fucked?” I roll my eyes at her.

“How many?” she asks pointedly. She wiggles in her seat and comes closer to me, her eyes boring a hole in me.

“It’s none of your fucking business,” I grit out.

“How many, Marlowe?” she repeats, this time with more emphasis. Her eyes flash at me, and before I know it, she pulls my steering wheel to the left, almost causing us to have a direct collision with another car.

I curse aloud and maneuver the car to the side, parking it by the side of the road.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I call out, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “You almost killed us, Minnie. For fuck’s sake.”

Her lips are pressed in a tight line as she glares at me defiantly. There’s a fire in her eyes that burns so hot, my body unwittingly reacts.

I should be mad.

I should be fucking fuming.

But instead, there’s only an ardent desire for…more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“How many, Marlowe? Tell me,” she demands.

I’ve gotten used to the meek version of Minnie—the soft temperament that fits her outer appearance. Yet seeing her now, like this, makes me wonder just how much of that was true. What truly hides behind her sweet face?

“What’s your body score?” she asks as she leans forward. She’s the epitome of seriousness, but how can I take her seriously when she’s always using the wrong idioms?

“You mean body count?” I repeat jokingly.

She doesn’t laugh. She just openly glares at me.

“Body score, body count. Whatever. What is it?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” I wiggle my brows at her suggestively.

“Tell me!” she demands impatiently.

“One hundred and fifty-seven,” I answer with a straight face.

Her mouth drops open in shock. She blinks repeatedly, swallowing hard.

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