Page 37 of Vipers & Roses

I stumble on his words, underestimating the enormity of what he does. “I assumed you were a petty thief.”

“I have the same boss as you, so…you figure it out,” he states honestly.

“Smiler? Smiler is your boss?” I exclaim in surprise.

He frowns in confusion. “Smiler?”

“The man who hires us to clean up his bloody mess. We don’t know his real name. Do you know?” I ask eagerly to fit another piece to the puzzle of the infamous and secretive hitman.

“No, I just call him Boss,” he answers flatly. “But why do you call him Smiler?”

“Oh, because he or whoever does the murdering has left a smiley face in the victim’s blood for the last three times. Have you met him? Have you seen what he looks like?” I ask excitedly before sipping my beer and enjoying the sweet, yeasty flavor washing over my tastebuds.

“No, I’ve never met him. Anyway, we’re getting off subject,” he says, taking a sip, then wipes the froth off his lips with the back of his hand. “Question. Why did you buy that gun?”

“You’ve asked me this before,” I groan. “I told you I want it for security and protection.”

“From who?” he asks. Those warm brown eyes travel over my lips and eyes, then drop down to my hands, gripping the glass of beer.

“Wait. It’s my turn to ask you a question,” I cut in, and his nostrils flare impatiently.

“Fine. But it doesn’t mean I will answer,” he says, stealing my line.

“Okay.” I’m about to ask him about his thieving ways until I remember my date with Cormac and a Blake/Black/Blade/whatever contacting him. “Do you know a guy called Cormac?”

“Cormac? Do you have a surname? I tend to remember surnames more than first names,” he informs me just as the barman places a basket of curly fries before us.

“Thanks,” I say to the barman before addressing Blake, “Bernardi.”

Blake's raven eyebrows shoot up as a sugary smirk slides across his face. “I know a Bernardi who’s a cop.”

“Do you mean Detective Gabe Bernardi,” I’m eager for him to clarify.

“Yeah. Do you know him?” he asks, shoving a curly fry in his mouth. He then signals to me to dig in and “help yourself.”

“Sort of,” I answer deliberately vaguely, “but how do you know him?”

“Shall we say that we’re in the same circle but on opposite sides of it,” he states, and I frown in confusion because I’m unsure what he means. So, he clarifies, “Well, he’s in law enforcement, and I’m into breaking the law, so…we’ve crossed paths on more than one occasion.”

I snort in laughter. “Has he arrested you?”

“It’s my turn to ask you a question,” he says, ignoring me. “Does Bernardi know you’ve bought a gun illegally?”

I gasp in fake horror and slap my hand over my mouth. “Is this gun illegal?”

He narrows those dark eyes, catching my plastic performance. “So that’s a no, I take it.”

“I don’t have much to do with the detective,” I inform him, ignoring my sinking heart. Although I would love to spend an evening with the silver-haired fox, “I share a class with his son Cormac.”

“Are you dating him?” he asks out of the blue.

“Why do you care?” I ask, pointing to my head. “Blond hair is not to your taste.”

“Do you want blond hair, green eyes, and freckles to be my taste?” he jabs, tapping his finger against the table.

My heart somersaults in my chest at his frankness. Perhaps he’s testing the air. “You forgot tall. But no, I wouldn’t force something that you find repugnant onto you,” I hit, taking a fry and biting the crispy end, enjoying the salty fattiness.

He tilts his head and runs his eyes over me. “You wouldn’t need to force anything onto me,” he says smoothly.

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