Page 59 of Sinners Retreat

She goes for my drink, and I pull it out of her reach. She looks dumbfounded and, frankly, a little bit offended as I tip it against my mouth and force some down my throat.

“I really need a drink, Ezra.”

“So do I,” I say, because I for sure do now. I’m sacrificing my own taste buds to preserve hers.

“Don’t be a dick,” she says, wrapping her hand around the base of the glass and tugging it toward her.

I relinquish it. I did my best to keep her from drinking the monstrosity now in her hand.

I watch with bated horror as she brings the rim of the glass to her mouth and takes a long gulp. This is a come-laced defeat if I’ve ever seen it. She moves the liquid around in her mouth, as if she’s savoring a fine glass of merlot on a fancy wine tour.

“What is this?” she asks, taking another sip for good measure. “Did you make this yourself?”

“You could say that.” I try to take the drink away, but she pulls it against her chest once more.

My chest tightens as if I might have a coronary right here. Sweat drips down my temples and rolls toward my cheeks. All I want is for her to stop drinking it so that she doesn’t ask me any more questions about it. It’s not my proudest moment, that’s for sure.

“Let me have one more swig. I’m under a lot of stress right now.” She tips it back and downs a quarter of what was left, then coughs. “Well, that was a little tangy...”

“Because it’s a piña cum-lada.”

She blinks and looks up at me. “Come again?”

“I don’t think I can because I already did. In that glass. Just before you arrived.”

To my surprise, she shrugs her shoulders and takes a parting sip. “Is that why you look so ill?”

“I do not look ill.”

“I didn’t realize a human could sweat this much. You’d be less distraught if police were questioning you about your murders.”

She’s right about that. I wipe the sweat from my brow.

“Besides, I’ve already had your come in my mouth,” she says. “At least this is more palatable.”

I’m too stunned to speak, so I just stand there as she finishes every last drop. Wonders never cease with this woman. And I don’t know how I’ll ever let her go.

That’s a fucking problem.

Kindra eyes me up and down, examining me from head to toe. “Are you doing recon dressed like that?”

I look down at my shirt and khakis. I didn’t think it mattered what I wore to a dead man’s villa.

“Yes?” I say.

“No. Absolutely not.”

She heads to my bedroom, and I follow because there are things she shouldn’t see in my room. In my luggage, to be specific. Which is exactly what she begins dragging onto the bed and unzipping.

I try to stop her. If Bennett didn’t make good on our deal, she’s about to see something very damning. “I can dress myself, pet.”

She eyes me. “Not properly.”

“Must we shit on what a man wears to a crime scene? This is a deeply personal choice of attire.” I try to squeeze her out of my luggage’s personal space, but she won’t be moved.

She whips my suitcase open and dives headfirst into the thing. She begins tugging out clothes, ruffling up my perfectly folded fabrics and leaving them discarded on the bed.

“I feel like I’m pulling shit from a Men’s Warehouse magazine, dude. Do you have anything that isn’t so...business casual?”

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