Page 86 of Cruel Games

As my fingers curled around the dirtbike’s handlebars after we’d ditched the car, I heaved a sigh of relief. The itch had been scratched; I’d come out of it mostly unscathed. Our job was done, and the asshole’s body was floating in the river. All we had to do was get home and clean up the remaining evidence of our crimes tonight—in more ways than one.

But I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. There was something dangerous about these men, something that allowed them to weasel their way into my heart, where they didn’t fucking belong. Something about them made me want to know the humans behind the masks. And I couldn’t afford that kind of closeness.

Not with them.

I couldn’t trust anyone, least of all the enemy.

And that’s all they were. The Neon Dogs were my enemies. I should keep my guard up and stay as far away from them as possible while living in their home.

But something in me had begun to chip away, and if I wasn’t careful, they might just weasel their way in through the cracks. And by the time I realized the intrusion, it would be too late.

Somehow, that wasn’t as scary as it might’ve once been, though.

And I didn’t even know why.

THIRTY-THREE

JACKAL

“How fucking long doesit take two people to ditch a car, dump a body, and ride home?”

I flicked imaginary dust off my shoulder and sighed, staring off into space as I wallowed on the couch. We had a routine after contract completions. We went out, got drunk, celebrated, and came home batshit fucked up.

And we couldn’t do that without Dingo.

And, I supposed, without Ivy, too.

There was no way she’d let us go without her.

I’d never seen her drunk, and a part of me wondered if she’d act mostly human once there was half a bottle of alcohol pumping through her veins. Or would she take this opportunity to slip us all a spiked drink this time and off us in the alley?

I wouldn’t put it past her.

Coyote stared silently at the clock, his eyes drifting occasionally to the door, then back to that damned clock Dingo insisted on putting on the wall when we first set up shop here. It ticked annoyingly along, marking every passing second in increasing levels of persistent agony. When I realized I’d been listening to the second hand move along for over a half hour, my rage got the best of me.

“Fuckingshut up already,would you?” I shouted, throwing a shoe at the wall. I missed the damn thing by a mile but somehow managed to almost hit my buddy, who kindly returned the shoe with twice the moving force I’d sent it his way with.

So, of course, when it pegged me in the side of the arm, I fell off the couch and groaned from the floor, secretly thankful it hadn’t hit me in the side of the head instead.

That would have really hurt.

“What gives? I didn’t even hit you, Coyote!”

“Came close,” he growled, dusting off his pants as he stood. “They’re late.”

The urge to roll my eyes was too hard to resist. “Well, no shit, Sherlock. They’re big kids, though. If Ivy didn’tkill Dingo, they’ll be back soon. And hell, even if she did, she wouldn’t miss the opportunity to come back for us, too.”

Just then, as if to confirm the damn accusation, the door swung open, and in burst Dingo wearing a shit-eating grin, with a less-pleased Ivy hot on his heels.

His hair was disheveled, his shirt mysteriously missing buttons, and there was a pointed white stain on the front of his pants. All of which was blatantly obvious to anyone watching him as he stood in the living room and stretched proudly. Ivy, however, was conveniently avoiding him, as well as any eye contact with the rest of us.

Strange.

“What took you guys so long?” I asked suddenly, tossing my arms behind my head as I reclined in my seat, feigning disinterest.

Ivy mumbled something abouttrafficand disappeared into my room, no doubt heading for the bathroom where she’d taken over despite my protests.

Dingo, however, just smiled and shook his head, shooting Coyote a wink and a sly grin. “I need to change my clothes before we go. Got a little blood on these.”

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