Page 49 of Strike Zone

“Serial killers have nicer ones.”

He pulls a shirt over his head. I take advantage of his temporary blindness to ogle—yes ogle—his body. Again. My eyes get stuck on the band of his underwear and the way his jeans sit on his waist. It’s a tease. I want to grip his hips and run my thumb under the ridge of his bone.

I wonder if he’s sensitive there. Would he like it if I touched him there? Or kissed him there? Why am I even allowing these thoughts into my head?

“That’s not very nice,” he says once his head pops through the neck hole. Huh? What’s not nice? Oh, right we were talking about his facial hair.

“I’m not here to feed your ego. I’m here to tell you the truth.”

“You take your job too seriously,” he jokes.

“I’ll try to be nicer.”

“Don’t. I like you mean.” He grins. I think he’s being serious, but I’m not certain. Why would anyone like someone being mean? That doesn’t make any sense to me. “We need to get going. It’s a two hour drive back home.”

“You actually want me to come?”

“If Mama said you have to be there, then you have to be there. Don’t worry, I’ll still show you a good time.” He smirks at me. I know that look. He’s definitely up to something.

“We’re going to be outside. I’m going to get dirty, aren’t I?”

“Oh, we’ll definitely be getting dirty,” he says, his eyes trained on me. A spark of fire spreads over my skin. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, birdie.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

12

WYATT

“Do we need to get gas?” Wren asks, as I back out of the parking spot. I’ve got one hand on her headrest as I look behind me. The urge I have to run my fingers through her hair or touch the back of her neck is troublesome.

I itch to have a hand on her all the time. Is that weird?

I glance at the gas gauge on the dashboard. A little under half a tank. “We’ve got plenty to get us there.” I shift the truck into gear.

“What about the way back? It would be better if we had enough gas to get us there and get back home. It will be late and we’ll be tired. We won’t want to stop. Your truck is also older than my grandfather. I don’t know if we can trust the accuracy of that gauge.”

“Can I do anything right in your eyes?” My tone is light, but sometimes I wonder if I’m a complete fuck up to her. And I don’t want to be.

“Yes. Of course you can. What kind of question is that?” She asks as if I’ve offended her.

“I don’t know.” Now isn’t the time to get into it. I’m not in the mood to sit in the car with a pissed off Wren. That’s like being trapped in a trash can with an alligator. “Fine. We’ll gas up but only because I want to get something to eat too.”

My mouth is already watering thinking about the fried cheese and beef taquitos they have at the gas station about ten miles down the highway. I stop there every time I head back home.

“Wait in the car,” I say, as I pull up to the gas pump and shut off the engine.

“I want to pick out what I want.”

“I’ll get it. Lock the door. I’ll be back.”

“You are extremely bossy today,” Wren scowls. She can complain all she wants, but she needs to learn how to shut her brain off and let someone else take care of the details for once. “I want—”

I hold up a hand signaling her to stop talking. “I know what you like. I’m serious. Don’t move.”

“Fine.” She balls her hands into fists. “But if you don’t get the—” I slam the door before she can finish the sentence.

I get the gas started before running inside to grab everything. I even manage to get it all without a list. I doubt she will find it impressive, more like irresponsible.

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