Page 42 of Butcher & Blackbird
“Did you consider at any point that you might want to clue me in about a cannibal inviting us over for dinner?” I ask.
Sloane shrugs, her attention still not shifting to me. “Maybe. Mostly only when I was scraping human meat off your tongue. Up until then, no, I can’t say that I did. You insisted on worming your way onto my dinner invite, after all.”
“Christ.”
She giggles, clearly delighted with herself. Her eyes shine with amusement when she turns to me as she dries her hands with paper towel. “Worked out pretty well in the end, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not really.”
Sloane grins as she heads toward David whose focus is consumed by the ice cream in his grasp. She shoots me an unsure glance before she stops by his swinging legs. “Hey, David. I’m Sloane,” she says. He doesn’t acknowledge her words, just watches her as he slides a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “Maybe we should take a break from the food, what do you say?”
Sloane’s smile is sweet, her movement fluid and graceful as she grasps the tub with one hand, the spoon with the other, then gently pulls them from David’s grip. He doesn’t protest and relinquishes both items at her request.
“Well,” she says as she saunters closer to me, her dimple a shadow of restrained amusement as she keeps her eyes fused to the plain white tub in her hand. She’s still reading the homemade label when she draws to a halt in front of me. “I might never look at ice cream the same way again.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Ingredients: cream—”
“Sloane—”
“Sugar—”
“I’m begging you,” I say, but as soon as ‘beg’ leaves my lips, Sloane’s grin ignites. My stomach flips in the most uncomfortable way.
Sloane clears her throat. “‘Semen, milked April tenth to April thirteenth.’ That’s an interesting substitute to salt—”
I push past her and vomit in the sink to the sound of her traitorous laugh. Christ, I thought there wasn’t anything left, but I was wrong. It takes a long moment to recover myself before I can rinse my mouth and the sink, my breath and balance both unsteady.
“Christsakes. What a fucking weirdo,” I say as I wipe a thin film of sweat from my forehead and turn to face Sloane where she stands next to David with her arms crossed and a shit-eating grin spread across her lips.
“Yeah, he was a strange one.”
“I’m still not sure if I’m talking about Thorsten or you.”
Sloane giggles and shrugs. “Maybe it’s fun to see the perfect pretty boy a little messed up for a change.”
My dark glare only seems to amuse her further. “I think you’ve already seen that plenty,” I reply as memories of last year’s game bubble to the surface. I can still recall Sloane’s touch as she bandaged my bloody knuckles, can still feel the warmth of her fingertips on my skin.
“That was different,” she says. “That was you in your natural element. This is…definitely not that.”
I huff a breath of agreement but say nothing further.
“But, you do kinda owe me extra for this year’s win,” Sloane says as she wanders closer.
I give her a suspicious glance as I lean against the stainless steel sink. “How do you figure?”
“Saving you from choking, for one thing. I thought that was kinda obvious,” she replies with a shrug. She stops just out of reach as she gnaws the edge of her lower lip. “I think I need to make a claim.”
“A claim?”
“A victory claim.”
“Hold up,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t make a victory claim last year when I beat that piece of shit into the ground for spying on you.”
“To be fair, you also kinda spied on me.”
I scoff, but it sounds forced. “Did not.”
