Page 83 of X's and O's
She was my mother, but she was wrong about that.
She’d never told me to be normal.
In hindsight, maybe she should have.
Being myself wasn’t getting me the girl. And I so desperately wanted her.
I ended the call, checked the time on my phone, and then Violet’s schedule I had pinned to my refrigerator with a magnet that said,Let’s get takeout. The fridge is for body parts.
She’d be finished with her first job soon, and she had about thirty minutes before her next would start. It wasn’t dark, but I didn’t like the idea of her walkingfrom one job to another alone. I got in my van and drove it to the address listed next to her name on her schedule, and sat outside, watching the door, waiting for her to finish.
It only took a few minutes for her to emerge, a caddy of cleaning supplies clutched in one hand, her purse falling off her shoulder, and her fingers fumbling with a set of keys. She locked the door and strode down the path.
I lifted a hand in a wave, but she didn’t notice me.
I leaned over and flicked a switch on the dashboard.
Music poured from a speaker.
Violet jumped a mile, spinning around to stare up at me.
“Hi!” I waved again.
She did a double take, first at me, and then at my ride. Her mouth dropped open. Then she stormed to my window. “Did you—” She looked both ways, checking nobody was around. “Did you kill the owner of an ice cream truck?”
“His body is in the back, chilling with the soft serve and chocolate dip.”
Her eyes widened, and her gaze darted along the side of the truck, like a dead body might rise from a freezer, zombie style.
I snorted on a laugh. “I’m joking! It’s mine. I swear.”
She squinted at me. “You own an ice cream truck?”
I nodded proudly and jerked my head toward the window behind the driver’s seat. “There’s a menu just there on the side of the van. You want one?”
She started to protest. “No, I don’t want a—”
“I’ve got hot fudge and whipped cream.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Why do I want to say yes?”
I grinned. “Because everyone likes ice cream.” I shifted into the back of the van, stooping a little because I’d always been too tall to stand at full height, but it wasn’t a problem a rolling stool didn’t solve. “Cone or cup?”
“Cone.” She blew out a long breath and muttered, “I’m getting ice cream from a murderer. I don’t think there’s enough therapy hours available in the world to unpack this sort of trauma.”
I held a vanilla cone out to her with the most charming smile I could muster. “Would any other murderer give you free sprinkles though?”
She took it from me, her fingers brushing against mine in the process. Both of us stilled, our gazes catching on each other.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Even in her ugly work uniform and with a dirt smudge on her cheek, she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen.
“I don’t know any other murderers to compare you to. Well, except Whip, apparently… And I guess Levi. Maybe some of those other guys from the Slayers. But I’m assuming none of them are in the same line of work.” She squinted at the van and took a tentative lick of her treat. “You swear you didn’t kill the real owner?”
I held up my hand in a salute. “Scout’s honor.”
“This is your legitimate day job?”
“I pay taxes and everything.”
