Page 93 of Mayhem and Minnie

“Oh.” She purses her lips. “I’m sorry I accused you, then. I didn’t realize you had a secret art room.”

“That’s right. No one knows I paint,” I say. The lies flow from my mouth with increasing ease. “It’s not something I share with people.”

“I see.” She scrambles to her feet and directs her attention to the stained sheet in the middle of the room. Glad she moved on from the cemented dick, I quickly discard it in a nearby bin and follow behind her.

“Is it because you’re not very good?”

“Excuse me?” I cough, not sure I heard her right.

“I suppose if I painted like this I wouldn’t want others to know either,” she mentions thoughtfully as if she’s not just roasting me to my face. She walks around the canvas, looking at it from different angles and scrunching her nose in distaste.

I blink repeatedly.

“It’s modern art. You wouldn’t understand,” I mumble under my breath. Though that was my first encounter with anything remotely artistic, I find myself rather protective of my blood splatters. They had intention behind them, purpose.

She half turns, raising a brow at me as if asking really. She knows it’s bad and she’s not afraid to say it to my face. Hell, I know it’s bad. But it’s for a good cause, no? I mean, I did rid the world of a rapist to build this art piece. For that alone, it should have value.

“And what is it supposed to mean then? Enlighten me.”

“Loss of life. Blood spilled. It’s a metaphor,” I answer with whatever comes to mind first. Though, I must admit, it’s not completely false.

She frowns.

“With real blood?” she asks in a provocative tone.

“O-of course not.”

“Hmm…”

Crouching down, she swipes her finger over the sheet, picking up some blood. She brings it to her nose.

“It smells like blood to me,” she comments.

“And you know what blood smells like?” I counter.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.”

She smiles at me. It’s a knowing smile. One that’s as mysterious as it is beguiling. Not for the first time, I wonder just how much I know about Minnie. One moment she’s one person, the next she’s a completely different one.

“Is it because of what happened to your foster father? Did you smell the blood when you stabbed him? What was it, twenty-eight times?” I inquire, purposefully getting the number wrong.

She shrugs, but she doesn’t correct me.

Interesting…

“You forget that I’m a fertile female, Marlowe. I happen to be well acquainted with the smell of blood.”

Her lips curve up in an enticing smile.

So enticing, it’s making my body react in odd ways.

Why did she have to put it that way? And why is the word fertile echoing in my brain on repeat?

Just as I am rooted to the spot, staring at her and seeing her in a very fertile way, she waves her blood-stained finger around before bringing it to her lips.

“No,” I snap. Rushing to her side, I grab her finger and stop her.

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