Page 61 of Never Die for a Sinner
My day will come. When it does, Trailblazer Corp, the DEA, and all of Seattle will know not to fuck with what’s mine.
My father may have been a sick, sadistic mother fucker, but one thing he taught me before I killed him?
No one fucks with the Cross’s.
Least of all, him.
“Starting a mechanic’s business now?”
I glance up at the sound of Christian’s voice as he steps through the open garage door. I’ve been out here since the moment I got back this morning, hands deep in the guts of Ava’s beat-up Oldsmobile.
The damn thing barely qualifies as a car. Tires worn down to threadbare rubber, the heater gasping like it’s on life support, and the engine rattling like bones in a coffin. Hell, it would probably make a better boat anchor than a vehicle.
Christian stops beside the gold monstrosity Ava has named Judith, and leans down, his nose wrinkling at the fuzzy, purple seat covers as if they might be contagious.
“Cute. Purple’s really your color.”
“Yeah, fuck you,” I grunt, slamming the hood shut with a satisfying clang that echoes off the garage walls. “Thing’s a piece of shit.”
“Thought you didn’t care?” he tosses back, amused.
“I don’t,” I snap, a little too quickly.
He raises both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching. “Right. Must’ve been imagination.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I didn’t fix itforher. Not exactly. I just needed something to do. Something to keep my hands and brainbusy while everything around me unravels. I’ve always been good with cars—took apart and rebuilt my first one before I was sixteen. I even fixed my Aston’s front grill after we slammed into Mega-deer the other night.
Christian watches me for a beat longer, the amusement in his eyes softening into something else—concern, maybe, or curiosity. I don’t care enough to figure it out, and that’s probably for the best.
“You’re avoiding something,” he says quietly, almost casually, but there’s an edge there I can’t ignore.
I snort, wiping grease-streaked hands on an already filthy rag. “Yeah,” I grunt. “You.”
He shrugs. “Or her.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Don’t you have something better to do?”
“Nah, I’m avoiding Bella and her Christmas demands.”
I round the car and slide into the driver’s seat. The scent of her perfume hits me instantly. I can’t fucking escape it.
Warm citrus and a hint of vanilla. Light, sweet. Unmistakable. It clings to the fabric, to the steering wheel, to everything. My mouth waters, and the memory of her pressed against me in the woods crashes over me like a tidal wave.
So soft and warm. The way she moaned my name. Fucking hell, she was perfection.
Fucking hell.
I hate it.
I hate that I crave her.
“So, where’d you go last night?” Christian asks, voice casual—but I know him too well.
I open my mouth to tell him about the information I’d learned, but fall silent. I don’t need to implicate him any furtherin this mess. He’s finally able to relax and settle down with his wife. He doesn’t need to be a part of my problems.
“Met a girl,” I say instead.
