Page 34 of Bullet

I sink into the chair across from him, so far back from the table that I should be at a safe range, but our knees almost graze. My one leg starts bouncing with nervous energy and I can’t stop fiddling with my watch.

It should be more attractive to think about wrestling a grizzly bear than to keep having thoughts about going to bed with a man I shouldn’t want.

Correction. I shouldn’t be continuously allowing my mind to keep returning to a place of wrestling in bed with an attractivegrizzly bear of a man, because he’s a client and that wouldn’t be professional or even legal.

He’s not a client yet, my traitorous mind offers up.

Dating isn’t something I do. Not only did I not have time, I straight up didn’t want a partner. I didn’t trust anyone around Willa, and when she was older, I was busy building my career and didn’t need distractions. Sure, there were a few men here and there, but the regret was always worse than what little satisfaction I got out of the encounter. In the end, toys and my own fingers were far less awkward.

All those years of ignoring my body’s needs seem to pile up, crashing down on me like a flash flood after an exceptionally dry spell, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening. Sandbags? Please. This is the kind of flood where the waters are twenty feet deep.

More like ten or so odd inches long.

I jerk so hard on my watch that the clasp undoes, and it clatters to the table. I quickly scoop it up, holding it tenderly and checking for damage before tucking it into my pocket.

Bullet devours the first sandwich in two bites, but takes at least three to finish the second. He grunts and sits back like he’s satisfied.

It would be delightful to satisfy him.

I duck my chin down so that he can’t see the blatantwanton my face. “Do you—we have snacks. Uh, cookies? Willa made some yesterday.”

“Yes, please. Can’t turn down a homemade cookie.”

I race to the tiny pantry, finding the bright pink plastic container. The rich aroma of chocolate chip goodness hits me as soon as I crack the lid. I set them down on the table, then fill the kettle for tea. I don’t want tea. I don’t care if Bullet doesn’t want it. I’m making it. I need somewhere else to look other than his face, his hands, his body, and his mouth.

I gulp, trying to be subtle, and it sounds like a gunshot.

“Maybe we can just show Harold the footage and he’ll back off. This whole thing stemmed from the fact that his kid lied to him. He might see what he wants to see, and that would be unfortunate, but maybe he’ll be reasonable.”

“And go back to being our club’s lawyer after escalating like a crazy person, getting you fired, stalking your sister, and burning a business down? I think we’re beyond reasonable.”

“I didn’t say everything could go back to normal.”

As soon as the kettle boils, I throw two Earl Grey teabags into the monster-sized brown teapot—one of Willa’s thrift scores—and fill it to the brim. There’s probably enough tea for eighteen people.

I carry it to the table before it’s too hot to lift, throwing a crocheted hot pad down first. Also one of Willa’s finds. Pretty much all the small furnishings in this place have been thrifted, but somehow, it works with the furniture and the fabric blinds that were custom fitted to every window and cost an obscene amount of money. I won the battle on those two things, and man, do I hear about it every single day, as Willa complains that our couch, the table and chairs, and even the beds have no souls.

“Do you take cream?”

“I don’t know. What’s in that?” he points at the teapot.

“Earl Grey tea.”

“Never had it. If you’d be so kind as to make a mug how you think best, I would appreciate it.”

The polite words don’t trip me up. It’s Bullet’s easy willingness to try something that he’s never had before, though anyone would say that big macho men and little teacups don’t go hand in hand.

“Is your club going to do something terrible if Harold won’t stop?”

Bullet shrugs casually, like we’re still talking tea here. “They’ll do something, but I don’t think it’ll be terrible. That would be traced right back to us, and Tyrant doesn’t mess with murder at the best of times.”

“Have you ever killed someone?” I blurt, like an imbecile, then add even more foolishly, “I mean, off the record.” There’s no way he should tell me this one way or the other.

He leans back in his chair. It creaks once, like that’s the only warning he’ll get before the thing collapses into a pile of kindling. “I was a soldier for twenty years.”

“You’re still a soldier. Just not the same kind of soldier.”

“That’s not the way our club works. We don’t get our marching orders like other clubs would hand down to their men.” He turns his hands palms up. “I’m not gonna pretend these hands aren’t bloodstained.”

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